the little Funky Town


the little Funky town…next to where we were.

Momentum of acorn’s debris.

lackadaisical-ly, organized chaos.

Melody out on the edge of no particular place.

Bias go free.

As the inner tantrum deliver’s rare, raw, sanctum days.

A remembrance of hoodlum and humdrum.

No royalties here.

Just misogynistic femininity.

Proper places where talking mannequins feel fit.

Vintage homesteads…playing dead.

Forks stuck in the dead-end road.

Worth the whiling away of long, straw, days…and, slower than molasses, evenings.

Living out softly.

On the shoe strings and pedigrees.


A hand that rocks that cradle

Treat your parents with loving care, you will only know their value, when you see their empty chair.


A hand thin as, ash

Frail, as the silk from a spider’s web.

Reaching out,

delicate in haste,

flesh, milky, freckled,  never a gesture in waste.

In indiscriminate ways,

these are the vestiges that cannot warn of lukewarm days.

As sun leathers a journey,

palms up,

cherishing adornments…

What kind of peace is this

cultivated… regards,

gesturing moments…both near and far.

Winds witness

a rain’s soaking martyred mage.

Vintage dowry, turns the page.

To carry on carrying…a hollow heart.

Empty ‘cept for blood from stones


the rare fresh start.

Ironic those vanquished sets of hands,

solitary yet grand.

From here to infinity…

Hand me downs, love in transparency.

Cupped in goodness,

praying to accept what is melancholy.