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Poem

what is wrong with thee?
o, plenty.
The non verbal,
repetitor.
She listens to wandering
ghostly attempts at
remembering
the past
to perserve
her future
to maintain
a quo.
ta.

of whom she laid eyes on,
upon the day
when her heart spoke
the language
of the unknown monk
whom the captain watts
often quoted,
the bible.s
the jesuses.
the buddhas.
the alahs.
the gods of gods and gods.
the lonely man,
from a distant universe.
sat in the house, on a cliff,
looked out his window to the desolate rocky ocean.
he grayed over time.
over worries
over creations
over complications and simplicities.
he, like us, also laughed and weeped.
with a pen in his hand,
direction from which is irrelevant,
wrote the play of life.
took his time,
might i add.
detailed.
spotted.
dotted.
zags.
his wife never nagged.
he had none.
he wrote.
dramas. mysteries.
but mostly comedies.
once his plays came to act,
suddenly he felt no responsibility.
it was his creation.
his ejaculation.
his shit.
his piss.
it was his external provocation.
the grand master of them all.
as we *****out daily nutrients.
and contemplate the paths of desires and dreams.
question reality. non reality.
the non creative.
the non god.
the non art.

 rain drops fall.
as if nothing happened.
or perhaps a response to whatever had happened.
she thinks.
she also worries.
how ever miniscule.
grandiose.
sub-turbulous the design.
a hike to the Himalayas and back.
not a journey for the weak hearted.

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