Memoir From My Worries



I burn with time: a collection of collard moments.

And I wonder why some-things defrosts

on the sight of some-nothings ― I learnt about

this on a bus when I sat and held hands with a girl

whose inside was overcooked by partitioned quinces.

I call on earth, bear me witness:

I have licked my wounds for progress:

a purchased eloquence on this dirg-y road.

The afternoon sprinkles into my room

and an ocean of hassle grows into peckish mannequins in my head.

I see in the movie, a boy― one with hunger― asking for

a pint of care; I see in the movie, a boy racing after cars―

the night is held at a point away from rumbling stomach.

America is anywhere you work your bones to

the core to make another very rich― says Danny Glover.

I try to assemble prayers for my collapsing hope.

I do not want to ask more than my dream can carry.

My long dead father wakes with me and I am shown

a one way around a twisted tree. My mother has a way of reaching

me without being near: my navel carries the weight of her pains.

There are no sad stories in a child’s dream: this is open for wrong, for debate.

I want to show you that entrance into my worries: the fluency for

my fears: the ones with the sound like a can full of nails: though

I know that when I stand long enough in a place I become its monument.

headliner image: end sars protestor from TSA the streetjournal

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