The Man Who Is Working For His Death

He said he was a descendant of the Babylonian Sufis
supposedly they migrated from India thousands of years ago.
He told me his story as we talked about Sufi poetry
about the transience of life and the permanence of love
the mystical connection between Sufism and music
his degree in classical music from University of London
the year at Juilliard's and switching to Jazz
and the series of unwise choices he made in life
although to him they did not feel like choices at the time
it was like other paths were not illuminated for him.

So how is it that you are doing this now?
A year ago, I had a bad case of lymphoma.
Wait, what? Yes, it is true!
He said that in a perfectly detached tone
as if he was talking about a bedbug infestation in his building
He did not have insurance and he was bankrupt after the treatment
Now he drives a car to make a living (I wonder what that means for him)
and he tells me why he is saving some money.

"They tell me this lymphoma will come back in four or five years
and when it does, I don't want to undergo chemo nor do I want to be here
I will buy a one way ticket to Nepal or Bhutan
I will let this body die a peaceful death and I will find a new body.
If I meet you in the next cycle, I will say Hello".

I wish you nothing but a wonderful journey, my friend!
I am thankful to have met you and to have known your soul
I hope to meet you again and I hope I will recognize your kind smile.

The Game

An intoxicating smile lingers today in my head

the delicate touch of a hand shimmers like a mirage

and from a distance I sense a thin film of salty desire 

I thought we forgot this wonderful game of seeking

O dear life, what fun you are! 

On Nights Like These

I fly into the silver gray skies searching for you.
Summoned by the dreams of nymphs and satyrs
the moon shimmers and smiles in veiled silence.
A blue bird on a distant shore sings of longing
only fools know what it is like to truly desire.

A long journey through the guarded dreams
self-denial .. self-annihilation.. now truth dawns
upon the heart with love and immense beauty
and I find you nestled between the pages of every story
smiling and patiently waiting for me to discover you.

Dimension of Truth

The woods, they sing a poem in a voice tinged with green
a dark mauve and black envelop the trunks of the old trees
what is the color of a dream again? Nothing but a melange.
A timid blue breeze flows like the elegant silks of a queen
an orgiastic symphony of gnarled branches and spiny leaves
an owl stirs quietly in the thicket as he delivers the message.

Deeper in the shadows, there is a cool silence waiting to burst
into a dimension of truth that is not yet known to mankind
the moon shines through the yellow weeping willow
while the universe creates a subtle story of hunger and thirst
a tale of dreams, desires and the wilderness within the mind
and it may live for an eternity in a realm that is hidden below.

Dark Blue Passion

His eyes; they are the color of sapphire blue of the night sky
a mysterious desire sets them ablaze with golden hues of amber
his heart, his fierce heart of Quitratue spews red hot burning lava
a deep dark passion flows in my fragile green veins once again
and I dwell in desperate despair through the desolate wilderness.
He is fire, he is thunder, he is truth eternal and he is my reflection
in waters of a well so deep within the soul, light fails to fathom!

Sometimes In Winter

I think of the warm yellow sand and green butterflies
under our feet the river swirled and sang little songs
in little emerald pools. Your eyes glimmered with desire.
That afternoon I buried a part of me under the dunes.

Then I saw you at the alpine lake one last time
I remember the scent of lilacs and of your words
under the starlit skies, the world fell utterly silent
I have never been good with words anyway.

There are scars of loss, pain and of memories
but there are somethings that I would never lose
your song still hangs in the moonlit shadows
and sometimes in winter I fall asleep listening to it

My Metaphorical Run

First it was the Peace pagoda, with its height and sharp angles
Poor thing! it must have seen war and its many ugly stories
so it must hold on to itself tightly against the autumn wind.
Cherry trees eager to lose their leaves lightly sway in its shadow
a breezy yellow against the crisp blue tones of November sky
because their time of spelndor is not here yet, they must wait.
The pagoda stands shrouded in metaphor.. is it a symbol of peace?
In its silent indignation, it is perhaps a riddle for future generations?

Then it was a beautiful old church with its wonderful architecture
stained glass windows stream early evening light in golden hues
there were hundreds of lit candles and someone playing the organ
a jolt of memory; a burst of fragrance - of marigolds and incense
it was a different time and a different place, yet the same reverie
I appreciate the two people praying in shrines to their patron saints
I hope with a deep conviction that their hearts and lives find peace
this too was an imposing and magnificent metaphor.. but of what?

Then it was at the lookout. The wind was blowing cold against the skin

a sprawling city lay below; a metaphor for human achievement?

a father walking his daughter home and he is skipping along with her!

"Will you mourn me? Will you pray for me?" - Suddenly a tear appears

in the shape of a glass sphere.. stays standstill in the vacuum shimmering.

Look closely, you find the desire of the entire universe reflected in it

with its vast emptiness longing to find something.. something palpable

to feel alive, to know its own complicated self! Of course, a metaphor!

I want to keep running.. past those 6 miles, past the palpable desire, past eternity 

into the arms of nothingness and into pure bliss! Is it really a metaphor?