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by Prakash Kona

I wrestle with the gods before
    day breaks upon blinds,
Mornings vagabond as music in a café,
The stalker’s days are given to sunsets
    where dust camouflages
        the panoply of returning faces.
So much said and hardly a point made
    the breath hides in latency of silence;
Joy is a razor with blood lost in stitching
    moments into a garland of roses
Witlessly we wander as crows
    in a town of strangers;
Stones I use to break the spines of bricks
    stoned I’m as a streetlamp
In the biting chill of a heart
    that mocks to keep alive
The sensual fire of reason;
A sheet of water separated
    you and I,
To kill but not to kill,
    to love and to die,
To make music and keep
    the cobra of time at bay;
I’m a spasm if not a wisp,
    I like rice to be cooked
Like flowers fill the garden
    of my hungry eyes;
Everything I look at
    casts a spell upon me,
For a partial viewer
    I’m reticent to core,
Raking up words out of graves
    has turned me necrophiliac,
I turn in my bed as a cloud
    tossed by winds,
These scenarios pregnant with details
    do not vindicate me,
I’m greedy for the life
    I deny characters of fiction,
The certainty of others is a page
    embossed with names,
Mine comes from artistry;
    I’m blind as a bat
In a resplendent cave
    of underground seas,
My humor darker than death,
What has reality done for me
    that I must suffer pangs
Of a soul in tatters
    defying reconstitution?
I cannot make it across a stream
    I’m a sea at heart,
The dryness in a glass of wine,
    I never looked for meaning,
To arrest the moment,
    create a scission
In the body at the edge
    of its personhood,
I rave and am cataclysmic
    my verses are catacombs,
I’m attached to living
    rather than life.

Copyright © 2006 by Prakash Kona

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