i stab
the fried banana
with a fork
pieces eaten
with joy in my heart
i stir coffee with cream
hot water inside the cup of white porcelain
i hear the ringing
of the door bell
and i do not mind
who is it what is it
i expect no one
this early morning
as i begin to piece together
broken glasses of memories
i dare love no one
and i dare no one to love me
there is an island of coffee with creams
inside the cup of porcelain
no one stirs it
except myself
i feed myself piece by piece with
a fried banana stiffened with bread crumbs
deep fried and well cooked
self, selfish upon itself
on a Maunday Thursday
the silence creeps like soft feet of a white butterfly on my arms
the windows are open
the air is free to go inside and play and be wary about its own molecules
the door is closed
no one is allowed to get in at this hour of my reflection
a day as mirror
a self as shadow cast upon a self upon a self
there is no language from the body
this time
only fools,only fools,
rising above themselves
saving life on some memoirs
a biography of another bigot begotten by this ghoul.
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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