Poetry: August 11, 2004

§

Doing what I think other people

think I should be doing
is not leading
it's misleading
it's following
and I wasn't born to follow
or tomorrow
the seeds of time get
swallowed
by wounded
alpha-rated bats
in stone hats
that scratch the face
and the furrowed brow 
it borrows

§

Remember
It's not your fault
It's just your reality

§

Too many graves
have walked beside me
still births are still born
until the first horn
sounded out 
once its cradles are
rounded out 
and fades between
the edgy blades
of atoms as they 
whirl about
some are ghosts whom time won't spill
into a cup
that measures draughts
not with counterweight
but aftermaths
(yup)
correction is its natural stir
he'll always find new ways to lust for her
though connected to a burning star
that carries in its 
endless blaze
a certainty to reach too far
for a doughnut
fit to glaze

§

Less ruth!
More truth!

§

Bereft 
or rather theft
As I saw it
My eyes are not crossed 
To take from the strong 
To serve a weak God 
As myopic as yourself 
And to think, the last time 
You stepped into a church
The priest himself, a Maitreya
Turned to birch and waited until you left
To branch out of the lurch
Thieves
In woollen fabrics 
Though wolves hide in hidden sleeves
Barking at all who question 
Dividing the flag along the lines
And waving it in place of valentines
When congress is in session
A man walks into a bag of fists
When he's fighting his confession

§

Your time is fading on the clock
The second hand has now been replaced
By the middle finger until now
Suspended in disbelief
But knows that things are looking up
Go ahead and drink what's left in your cup
And as for the stains still left on your ties
We'll point arrows at them
That'll say: 'your son's blood here'
He died for a good cause
He helped us squeeze another point
WE'LL BUST YOU HARD IF YOU SMOKE A JOINT!
Meanwhile,
We smoke Muslims

§

I praise the herb
What else is it
But the active verb
To be
To have your own
To mind your own
To be your own
And not be a slave 
To a lesser state
Which proposes ponds
Of many fishes
Even as it steals
Your bait

§

In Guadalajara 
I once saw Che Guevara
Kickin' it with some homies 
And a princess in an iced tiara
His pants were green with yellow stripes
And two of his crew were smoking pipes
U joints for the sink
I think 
They were
(gesundheit)
Monkeys were dancing
At the tall end of trees
All of a sudden I freeze
Not all at once
But by degrees

§

A boy's body 
Belongs to the wind
To the primal joys of life
To discovery !
And the languid drifting clouds
That like canvases of cotton
Paint the daylight hours 
With colours of delight
That brush a boy's memory
With the confidence
Of crowds

§

 



COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA - MILANO, 11TH AUGUST 2004
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED