the Little Trader

i looked into his hungry eyes

and saw the curse.

the curse his grand parents passed down to his parents

and his parents to him

i saw his dusty swarthy skin,

and his scarred finger weaving straws beside his sleeping sister

i fought the urge to question him,

to ask where his mother was

was she thinking about them?

i looked into his eyes

and saw his world,

how primal and scarred it was.

i will never forget his feeble voice

when he asked what i wanted.

how his hands were

when i gave him the money.

how desperately happy he was

that he has sold a bottle of coke

to a stranger..



Not Always At Night


I had almost forgotten about the ghost. I hadn’t seen her since Moving In With Her, and I’d stopped worrying about her. I could come in from the garage late at night without needing to glance up at the window above the back door to see if she was peeking out. But in the back of my mind, she was still there.

Of course it was at night. It’s always at night. My daughters were in bed behind closed doors, my wife was asleep downstairs. I was reading in the spare bedroom, the dog was sprawled across the bed, and a little girl was singing in the hallway. Three distinct notes. Sounded playful. Like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

I thought one of our girls had gotten up. I put my book down and poked my head into the hallway, expecting to see one. That would…

View original post 532 more words


i wept for the moping owl

that had blood dripping form her eyes

then at midnight she’ll always cry

“your demons are out why don’t you follow suit”


I’ve always known this night-bird

for the darkness she and i shared

my shows had also known her

together darkness was our only scar


i loved the dark scribbling of poe

that demons may come and demons may go

on the illusive road of Eldorado

like blood melted in December’s snow


no one is ever there youosee

behind the garment of your lovely fear

whatever you think is whatever will be

Goodbye Owl, for dawn is near.


as i walk through the pages of the revolutionary past,

i ponder on the nature of man and his world

i think of his desire to be freedom

i think of the violence created in his worldly mind,

i think of his rationality to this creation.

as i read through the darkness of night

losing sense of time and the the world outside the walls of my room

i am being drawn into a trance where the words i read are soaked in meaning.

i am numb like the dead to the pricks of life.

i am not myself

i have allowed myself to be something else..

and on they walked…

and on they walked

with thoughts floating about in their heads

with resolutions tied closely to their flesh

and their mortality soaked in anticipation of the unknown.

they follow the drumbeat of time

and slowly they are hypnotized by the monotony of the world

the silent melancholy of their yesterdays plays across their heart

the recognized the tune

cos it had played before

but somehow they think its different

how could it be?

they aren’t any new demons to fight

just the old one in a different attire.

and on they walked..

on the same path they did yesterday

with the same thoughts that was on their mind yesterday..



the name of my fear is “them”

they are enormous

they are from me

i am the subject

they are the objects.

i see them every time i turn around

they see me too

maybe they know I’m afraid of them

maybe not..

i tend to relate everything to “them”

the pull these emotions from the depth of me withdrawn soul

it is now the emotions i can’t control

they force into chains i already broke.

the bring the mirror closer

so i see how afraid I’ve become

and tremble at the trembling figure of myself..

i can’t draw closer to “them”

i can’t fall prey to the despair that have taken them..

i must not

for the sake of everything…