radically, when i was ten
i was honest, and the old folks
are alarmed
when the guests are insulted
about their
truths: like the middle aged
woman is stealing our
garlic
the man with a black hat
is ugly
or this house is dusty
and the roof leaks
Mama often tells me
to keep my mouth shut
but then i haven't
learned much
on such ambiguity that of
having to speak the truth
and on one hand
to hide it
at this age now
respect has become the
brother of lying
Papa is the model of
restraint
that when nothing is good
to be said
i better be silent
to survive
to make the system work
to be at one with
the world
and just be another
walker, breather,
cooperative soul
lest the family suffers
or meet
premature political
death
i like Ted's wife when
she says: Fuck you!
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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