A Cloudy Sky


I felt the loneliness of this winter
softly sweeping away the converging parts of the sun

I heard the proud moans of the afternoon
over the empty trees. The humble silence
grabbed their looks,
and just as if they were

their mouths wobbled, bemused

shrouds of comfort.
This loneliness emerging out of
keepsakes snug
inside my pocket, burst forth
in the tepid air

It was winter in Los Angeles

My mother grew older,
and we remained up on the corner
where birds faced east, ah-
up the dust turned grainy in the cold wind
(It bothered me finding it on the windowsill)

Hopes that
ran away from me
bespoke of little change in the cerulean sky;
there were no differences, no hidden lies

The hills suppressed under weighty skyscrapers
slurred through the senseless feet
of suits
running out of time
like my mother, except
their visions floated,
not yet trapped,
ready to tap
into some shroud of light

Any day now in cloudy Los Angeles.


Cities Past Dreams


That one day, when the city has fallen

asleep and dim housing lights, sullen,

are outshined by the stars,

we will turn our ears past the violence that mars

the fluorescent tulips in my turbulent backyard.

Wheels that spin forward

under the shadow of lurking skyscrapers behind

a choleric sun, inconsistently halt and grind.


After erroneous decisions we will then seek

the rhythm of our desires, no longer meek

but pulsing – a thumping singular to only our ears

And in the shards of windows, the years

ahead gleam like clean walkways

where shine the moon’s rays,

cloaking cities of clamor with drowsiness,

ahead will come the sleep of gods and goddesses.