Archives for July 2013

Monsoon Season

Monsoon Season


Thunder, lightening, and rain come at least once

a day during the monsoon season, like a gift from

God, the air is cleaned and things turn green.


When I lived in the East, I thought torrential rain

only came to India and other exotic places like

that. Never to a place as dry as Arizona.


What has been brown, dry and practically

desert is now green, lush, and has flash flood

warning signs posted all over the place


Mosquitoes have been born and they bite places

where I can’t scratch. My brown sandy lawn has

turned green because of the grass sprouting there.


My skin has become soft from so much moisture in

the air and without the hot sun, its color has turned

from brown, back to the white it was before I came here.


I love the sun, but must admit that when I see dark

clouds bringing our daily rain, my heart is glad for

the relief from the heat, the cleaning of the air,


and when sometimes I see rain falling so far away

that I know a drop won’t fall on me that day, I

secretly wish that it would.

The Scale


The Scale


Like a creature with no eyes, the

scale never lies no matter how hard

I pray it’s wrong. Like a curse it says

I weigh more than I should. That

means defeat and I can no longer eat.


I’d fix that damned scale if I could, so it

wouldn’t tell the truth and it would get stuck

at my ideal weight, no matter how fat I got,

but it’s digital and won’t tell any lies, because

it doesn’t have any eyes.


My spirit and stomach cry out, “feed me,

feed me, fill our need, we don’t want to die,”

but I resist and suffer so much I take a bite

from my cheek and I’m surprised by the

delicious taste of my own flesh.


If I eat myself, I’ll never gain any weight.

Dinnertime rolls around and I swear in

despair before hunger drives me insane.

I take a bite of my arm and to my delight,

I taste better than any cow.


I don’t weigh myself as I once did every

time I ate. I’ll never weigh more than I

should, because I’ve eaten my arms

and legs, so I can’t open the refrigerator

door anymore or even get on the scale.

Weird Poem of the Day



Is what I’m called when with a heavy heart

I carry a bevy of eyes that are alive when

they arrive in the city on a spiraling wind.


I find the city blind until my grotesque form

absorbs strangeness that oddly becomes

a comfort


when the eyes arriving in the middle of the

night without sight miraculously see what’s

inside of me through eyes that come alive.


I see what they desire and if they had

vision like me, they’d be depraved in a

degenerate way.


I do my job and wave at the sky before

I give them a shot of novocaine and rip

out their eyeballs in a painless way.


I suck out their spirits that are liquid and spit

them into an icy spiraling wind that puts me in awe

as it takes them to a place called Bizarrerie.


Spirits not ashamed to scream upon opening their

eyes that I gave them as a gift, so as not to deprive

them of seeing in the name of love, what was to come.


They had to sweat and their mouths bloomed as though cut.

It would be fun when who I really am became clear to those

who now had eyes and could count the years they’d been alive.


Not one found dinnertime the instant to be blind or else in their

imaginative minds they’d get behind and have to adjust the wind

with a magician’s wand to leave their spirits in the dust.


They could leave in disgust once they heard the bizarre beat,

like a rock guitar in the dungeons that used to be their minds.

Out of breath I take out their eyes that are full of lies