Space in the City

is expensive. Some poor don't clutter theirs
with many things. Just themselves. So,
when the memo came out about enforcing
a clean-desk policy, I realized how physical
I was. There arrayed for display
are my worldly possessions-

my digital clock, black;
perpetual calendar, in metal, bronze;
pen holder, full of vendor-branded pens;
magnetic stick-on, as souvenirs;
company-issued laptop;
telephone unit (with my local number);
my PDA on its cradle;

and a picture of you,
big and in color.

Darling, there is an explicit instruction
to take your picture off my desk.
Like the city's poor removed
from squatting on private spaces,
I have to remove your picture
from theirs.

How to Dismiss a Non-Performing Lover

It is difficult when lovers treat each other
like sales agents, mutually asking for a love forecast,
and demanding each other’s commitment.

But the problem with prediction is the future,
not the predilection for unexpected roses,
but love reduced to  appearances.

If lovers were businessmen, non-performance
could be a development issue. Coaching may or may not
save the lovers. And when it doesn’t,

To dismiss need not be abrasive. Give each other dignity,
not insanity. Shake hands and hug each other if you must.
It’s all business. Find someone else who can deliver.

The Shortest Distance Between You and Me

He once wrote this - the shortest distance 

between two points is love. 

Were those points eyes I would have believed him. Maybe

mathematicians will disagree, citing Euclid's axiom number one. 

So, I tried again, one more time, approaching the water crashing 

against the boat's port side with myriads of moving points. 

Tap my shoulder and turn my face to you. 

Do I see an end-point in your eyes? I like what I see.

This is not a love poem

Yet. But who knows? With so much uncertainty ahead you
don’t have control how this will morph. It could take
one path and choose not to be. Bad, bad, yes, but
the span of your attention has expired like a breath,
are you expecting a rebound from your next breath?
This poem couldn’t hold you down either. You could leave
before the next line withers. When you do, this poem
can abort, abend like software and cast
a blue screen on you.

How to Stop a Beating Heart

First, let his eyes witness the inevitability of death.
(This silence is over-extended.)

Make his chest heave for lack of air.
(This is making me hyperventilate.)

Press your overwhelming weight upon him.
(You’re easing me out of your space.)

Look him in the eyes, examine his fear, and tell him to relax.
(You want to say it’s over? So, now I am your ex?)

Pierce the blade into his chest, through layers of muscles
(Can I leave now?)

to rest into his heart-
(I need to pee.)

Finally, look into his eyes ‘til there is nothing to see.
(I really have to go.)

Miss

To compare recollection of things with how and where they were
I guess is human nature. You can always log a problem ticket
for things that should be there but aren’t. Dial the hotline number-

But how careless or carefree one can be until the audit period drops
like a brick from the height, slipping off a day-wager helper’s hand.
I remember my head missing a brick by an inch.

Human skin is thick with layering. Even so, I pricked my skin
to wake me up from this self-made trick, of looking for you in places
where you should have been.

I know, I know.
There is no system yet in place to log such issues.

A Toy Soldier

No wise man ever said whether pools rush in, the way
flash-floods would in streets, in a tug-of-war with the van’s wheels.
Nor would you leave your baby on the car floor to taste
the water-tainted carpet, stains marked on it.

I frequently saw a green soldier-toy, only an inch tall.
He kept this fighting stance as if he were at war.
His green rifle though raised up and erect never did ward me off.
But his stiffness increased my desire for him .

It’s not for sale. Wars normally commence after this.
If I had the power of Moses over water, I would hurl the flash flood
against the window, break it up, then pull back and drag
as if with claws his toy soldier, and drop it on my carpet.

Fly

There are lies and there are
flies. These will not take you to the moon
or flay you before the stars.

Interestingly, like parent-birds,
the instinct is to fight back, kamikaze-like:
fly to the depths and crash.

But, the advertised phytochemicals
aren't scraping the fat off my veins:
Come on, burn, baby, burn.

What do I do with you now
and how? Look, the plate left unfinished,
has a fly feasting on it.