To forget the world in a piece of fruit.
To find the tart existence of solitude
The silent release of ages gone by.
on the smooth plain of the outer shell.
The containment of painless wisdom.
The hidden celestial being at the core.
If this were what I was to believe in
this would be my redemption.
Ignorant Jest
He will never forget the tablecloth
darkened with pools of decaying ketchup.
His half-eaten meal a deserted battlefield the fork
upset and rigid in the mash potatoes.
Sitting in the cafeteria of a foreign country He found
little comfort in the florescent lights, and the girls
who always smelled like sin.
He longed for the Dal-Bhat that made his mouth water.
He will never forget the words that struck him like
grenades before falling down his throat to explode in
his gut.
Like the street bombs that went off in his Kathmandu.
And his so-called friend in ignorant jest says “you're a
fucking terrorist.”
Finally Forgiven
She never apologized for that night.
And now she inches towards his coffin.
His eyelids a robin's egg blue.
She whispers “I'm so sorry,”
but nothing can make the guilt subside.
Except for the seedlings he gave her last summer
which are now plum blossoms in the mud
next to his grave
as a sign of forgiveness.
The Sandbox
Swinging on the rough metal bars
with my red buckle shoes.
