1.
A stale face
without eyebrows and
lashes, wears a morning moon
by the sea of clouds,
lonesome, pale,
without light,
gloomy, summer sweat
mint, sun
rise up blue,
rinse nights clean, but sleep
never dawns.

2.
The call of
October is strange,
brings cold air
on a dead
orange August when
your throat sucks
memory
and you inhale fall
falling like
leaves, dreaming
skies, purple lines,
your cold feet.
Drums and guns,
earthen faith, incense
and rivers.
Heads and limbs
of gods and devils
float, burning
ghee, camphor,
ripples and rhymes, and
a lane, smoke.
Time tastes thin
in the wet valley.
Octobers,
we had poured
then, tall backyard trees,
these winds bring,
does
not show up
now.

3.
No rain, no winter.
only warmth to burn,
to run through the white pages,
parched toes, rotten
frames.
No rain, no winter.
Some dust to cover your eyes.
Heat waves, broken
windows, grass,
sand
No rain, no winter.
For rivers must dry
and we must not cry
No rain, no winter, only smoke.
A thousand summers in my throat,
And a whisper
to wipe out the ashes,
if not, the years.

4.Boroline
Memory is a jellyfish
that melts like cheese
over blood, over your sores,
itching dry Winters,
itching sweaty Summers
before the skin wears off.
A yellow box of plastic:
a steel razor, blades in tiny white envelopes
a shaving soap, a brush
and a dark green tube
of memory, to heal your wounds
is all I can now recall.

5.
There is a house inside my head.
It stands by the river that bleeds time, skies
overcast, stones that are black. Sleep travels through its open doors and windows, breezing liquid dreams through the day.
The tin roof flickers, the wood cracks, grass sway.
Leaves whispers mundane jokes, memory slips
and breaks, counts in light-years,
trees disappear,
only to show up at midnight.
There are no roads,
no birds, no moon, no rain
no lonesome wary travelers who lost their way.
Only a soaked, whining voice in a trance
under gloomy skies, that loops
over the landscape.

6.
When hands fall off
from your body, do they fly?
do you buy
lies, you want to hear?
truths, you bury before you die?
When tears mirror moon,
do you lick time?
through the pages of old books
that stinks of moth and kerosene,
hair, do you sigh?
When these restless winds
flirt with your patience
do you stand naked by the mirror
and chant your restless lines?
When anger boils within
do you cook, nod your head
or do you make love to peace
wild?

8.
The summer has aged here.
The breeze hums humid rhymes,
brings shivers under a hot sun.
Rice leaks more sleep through the drowsy sound
of a machine that loops near,
now, further away.
The sun too seems to be at peace with itself
The yellow trees fan the ground, exhale lemonades
and green dreams for us to the pass another year,
as we await Fall.