Only Peace shall give thee peace

Only Peace shall give thee peace

Only horse shall feed its keep

Only Mother shall milk its babe

Only Death shall make me sleep.


Only Morn shall make me rise

Only mourn shall help me die

Only Wise shall give me eye

Not in three, do I see in-finite.


Only grey shall turn my pale

And the sea shall cast my earth.

Only We shall take my i

Only It shall preach my cry.

Listen to Captain, He Makes it Easier

Over and out, Captain says.


Over the rise and through the foggy dust storms,

and the mixed up, mismatched body parts and commingled corpses.

Over the stud walls, and unsolid portions of broken homes.

Over easy, fragile, crushed aching hearts and crying babes and forgotten females.

Over the raped-through frocks, the radiation-raped bodies,

and broken, timeless chiming clocks.

Over a shedding island alongside China.


Casually taking flight over casualties.


Out of misty skies.

Out towards home,

            Blessed, God-shining, in who we trust, home.

            Where suburbs burst with bustling tingles.

            And the front cover is covered with white paste,

            But worked at by black, brown, yellow labor.

Out of freedom, and presidential kingdoms, Truman’s sweetness — 

            Unruly saint-ships

Where separation of wife and husband is more evident than that between church and state.

Out of misty skies; clean, misty skies

            But the most heavily polluted.


Over and out, Captain says,

Casually moving outward over Japan’s incinerated land —

Over casualties.


This poem speaks of the tragedies in Hiroshima during World War II, where America was romanticized for its suburban beauty, and democracy, while Japan’s demolished land was seen as demolished righteously so; it may have very well been, but the persona disagrees. Written after looking at the last words written on a restaurant placemat and observing the stud walls.




White String

The morning's cold is bitter

When you are not near.

It is your body's warmth,

From yester

That controls my shivering fear.

But only you tied, a string to my arm,

Put it on your heart,

To woefully drag me along.

Drilled me a kiss,

And strolled smooth sail.

When will you return,

With your steam

My warm bitter air?



I lament you now,

But my lulls are still

In their infinite loops, they pool,

As eyes who’ve dried.


If I could speak to you now,

I’d be damned by the how,

Some creatures who’ve haunted me,

Are the angels to whom you’ve called.


If I could speak to you now,

If rather you did not,

I’d pray for no blaze,

As you whiten and fade.


If I could speak to you now,

I’d divorce from my heart,

How much of this earth I’ve loved.

You were grave and grounded,

Before the grave’s ground hit,

But hubris extracted, from all you precluded.


If we should speak now,

I’d ask one thing of you,

If your limbs could speak,

Let them intake me.


How some height I had sat on,

How some gentleness you had worn,

If only your soul could be kept here,

To gown, to protect me, from my eternal abode.


If I could speak to you now,

Plaid marks will mark your paths.

On Thursday nights I quarrel,

At the quondam, transcendental wraths,

He rather smirked at, and, on his behalf,

Righteously is now mapped.


Mother swells deep,

But silently she keeps,

If we could hustle, and whistle,

To the dropping coins raising men from slums onto feet,

Coins dropped by wrinkles, that seamed hands

(Hands I’d again hope to meet).


Some humble blanket,

To cover your strangest of paining.

To meet that face now,

I’d be doomed by my floods:

I’d be doomed by the façade,

The soul,

That I miss so much. 



Indian you are

Born and wild,

Indian you are

Old and styled.


Of poems who speak

To you rather, then us,

Be wise as you,

State kind, say us.


Indian are you,

So bold, and fine,

So smart by the curved mind

Whose eyes, are earths.


Indian, so kind,

Indian, so wild,

As Himalaya you have climbed

And urged to hurt.


Be forth, come hither,

As lover of soul

As poet

As chemist.


Indian, my India

Be Jai,

Be bird.

Not blue, be green


Be golden

Be Indian,

Be earthed.

Be golden


Be Indian

Be kind

Be earthed.


Be here for all, my luck, as I have lost too much.


June 14, 2016 – 4:40 am – San Francisco, CA


Have you not seen,

In your sleepless dreams –

That the race for greatness has started?

Where have you been?


While you were fasting

            I was eating

And while you were awake,

            I again, then, was dreaming.

            They have lied to

You, in your ways,

            You, that all you do is


Hence be broken, once,

            For your own sake,


            And you will then be fixed

To only then never be affixed

            On deathly sleep

Whilst the wakened world weeps.


Syria has fallen,

            While Jerusalem rise;

Why may one sun brighten –

            Causing the desertmen’s demise,

While the moon has taken over another??

Hath thee no fortress,

            To bathe in or waken,

            While all folks to live, and strive for ransom?

Hath thee no friend?

Then awaken my sleeper,

            And more time for that shall be spent.

But patience is a hill –

            Whose end may never begin.


And life beckons without the pretend.


There lay something unsettling in your mists;

Yet there seems something gentle in your swifts.

Something unkind and haunting in your fathom

May one day trap me without ransom.

Yet I am in scare and awe, by the plenty you have touched.

If you have me now, your life-like shudders will forever haunt my day.

Differed akin day’s feint partner;

Treated as though child, to who seemed preyed.


July 5, 2016 – 11:18 pm – San Francisco, CA


To this world,

What would I give.

But what has this world,

Given to me?


July 6, 2016 – 5:45 pm – San Francisco, CA


Mercy on me,

My Lord for these deeds,

Mercy take now, as today I will bleed –

And to myself I shall cause,

The blue that will spill,

            Because no room for fire,

            I will leave no substance for me to breathe.



Shall You be thee?

Because twice I have thought so,

That my deeds shan’t be seen,

By none other than You – if only You could breathe.

For none of You, I have believed,

But my mother promised me I would see, as some brethren

Of no sake to hearten.


And as I prayed the arrival of a blushing steam,

As I begged for you to undo the sins in my seams,

You promised me a feeble babe –

But something of his stature stood me so weak,

So frail as stood he,

Some brethren I thought he,

            (Mistaken, quietly)

But none shall presume lies

Whether I tell his love I have touched,

Or my heart has he,

            Let me be gay,

            Let me laugh to mine own alacrity –

            And to that I may, again, as my entire life, bleed;

But now I shall be reddened dearest Lord;


Shukran, ya Karim.


June 27, 2016 – 6:46 pm – San Francisco, CA



     Hath thee known,

That all you’ve done has sullied my soul?

Behold, still.

     Generous as fruit,

     Who’s barren as brute,

     But unheld by all you ensured was right.


     Your sweet pearl body,

     For it seems it shan’t never come onto me –

See what you’ve done to me!


No, do not, no more,

     I have taken sakes for far too large of stakes,

Behold, stay, still, stay:


     My grammar has taken bluntness,


July 31, 2016 – 9:57 am – Berkeley, CA    


Take dictation please.

On a ringed spool of something blue,

I, so high, my kite there flew,

And unto, came crashing through

Your paper aeroplane,

Crushing my paper heart, too.

The entire poem is orchestrated as a memorandum to Rushmore, by Wes Anderson.


I, too, have beautiful thoughts, too,

But my introversion gets lost in you.

And while you, soothe,

I am horrored in the honor of losing you.

To imply no greater being be mine,

Is truthfully amusing –

But never singled by this circumventing mind’s cycling;

Never by the chants you gallantly peruse in my mending.

I, too, want your beauty for me, too,

But seems courters are popular

In their wealthy illusions.

Maybe therefore I am a lonesome, broken scholar,

Maybe therefore of you I shall make no more allusions.

Fragile Stone


I’ll handle you with care,

As you are my fragile stone.

But be soft with me,

As I’m just flesh and bone.


Convince me to love you,

And into my heart, will yours be sewn.

But be shy in unstitching thus,

As it has too often been ripped and torn.


I’ve wanted this moment,

And now that it has shown,

I feel I’ve misjudged its meant,

And so never again will you wear my gown.


Yet, atop me you sit,

As on your conquered throne;

And atop me, please stay,

It keeps me from feeling alone.


But it has the togetherness that saddens,

As I sense it will fade.

But promise me that if all else darkens,

Keep here until morning brays.


However, when you leave,

Tell me why you came.

I’ll forget to inquire,

My words, within themselves, will cave.


And if your reason was love,

Then thanks for these days,

But if this was a goodbye,

Please stay away.

I Have Yearned

I have yearned

But never earned

And upon your

Thought, comes so


And a scarf

That you discerned,

That my mother

Gave me once.


How dare you,

Yet again, make

Me blush, reduce

Me to man?

Never heard, a

Single word, of

My mind disclosed

In your sweet



Still, I yearn

Through these nights

Of Norse tales,

And Bragi’s lights;

Festival goes     


And beer here

Flows, but I

Do not drink,

Of that you

Know, no? No

One sees that

Charm in me

That you once

Smirked towards in

Daylight’s gleams. And

Now spent a

Night, to my

Sweet gladness, 


Tick tock,

Marvel at your motion, I endlessly stalk.

Brick, chalked:

I should carve your path to follow you forever for blocks.

City smogs, like sing songs

With your yet fallen mocks

(To tour my lusty wrong)

Of my idle admiration to your undying, virtuous stock:

Gallantly timeless by these clocks.


So march on, on your own solidarity of restlessness.

I should charm your so-adequate shyness,

Presumably delicate,

While to you I muse my own amuse to serenade.

Iðunn [Idun]

September 20, 2016 – 10:23 am – Munich, Germany



can I be your Prince,

and You, my Everything?

I, as Bragi

and You, Iðunn’s unfeathered Wing.

my Oath, I’d only Smile,

as we’d be unfettered from Sin.

fair Love on its rise, together to make our Kin

stronger than their Demise…


and it shall all begin with a single Kiss.


unfelt your Brow,

and soldier some internal Being.

as closeted Clown,

Eyes decorated with sparkling Rings,

to awaken your deepest Sleep.

but there I will be, on the same twinning Bed…


and shall We end, I could then call myself a Surrealiss.


6:05 pm - June 7, 2014 - Doha, Qatar

Don’t be so vain and stare at the mirror.

Look away from the clear glass and I swear life will seem clearer.

Its sweetest paths are those who seem dull,

Because in those sweetnesses we realize the mere truth they uphold.

The dresser and mirror and labeled vanity.

They have only such a reflective delivery.

They uphold values for the vain, and smuggle through you false truths.

Vanity reflects in the opposing direction, with a world outside its secretive frame.

The vanity is hubris.

         Excessive and blinding,

You see only with one framework,

in eyes and thought, with no creativity in its bound.

Till death part us so, our vanity shall never turn around.

Its opposite, false faceted reflections will always reflect our most self-deprecating truths.


The Weakest (K)night


Camelot was won of, by not lords, by not King,

but rather knights.

And so to commemorate, their strongest leader uniquely left off for his own afternoon delight.

Camelot's next heir.

Icarus was blinded too, once, and never again, from his exuberance - aired into err.


The drinking of ale requires not a single of strength,

But a million of weakness.


Here, sirens laughing and singing stop every heard man.

Here, where residing, and sorrowing, drank too his foes.

Collared chippers. Chippy chap drinking his celebrations, not sorrows, as his story progresses to a feverous clap.

'Clap clap!'


And so on and on he drinks with his foes

To show them the strength of his mind, is greater than those.


Only angering his Gods,

While he swears to his God -

"I swear to my god," saying with such slipshod Method.

"Come close while I show to all my strengths."

Drinking mug upon mug,

Upon mug and again - "you see here, this is mindness, true capacity. I do do what I do without mind though - it harkens my best ability."


Armoring out of his bod' he summons a sword.

His foes, younger and

Sober -

Wiser and lively -

Step back, but worry not for his shtick.

He may wield the bladed iron,

But his evident weakness makes it a wood stick...

               And who's to know if his bod' has one on it!

                              Reckoned, rumored, and maybe even true -- no woman can falsify these classifications, no!


Pity, his drool,

It pities him,

But even it scolds itself for moving so slowly out of the mouth of a fool!


Lucking out, the saliva leaves to its safety.

Once, never again, the foes see their opening.

Circumspect he was thought to be, protecting his King,

And though she deemed his strength worthy for him,

He was too weak to deem consciousness for himself.

Stabbing, and looting, and sordidly smirked,

The foes trapped his weakness in his self-justified mirth.

Malevolent, and flippant, of where his bod' went,

They stayed through the night, gaily finishing his weaknesses away.