My Intent
My intent is to do nothing,
be nothing, see nothing.
I can barely speak loud
enough to be heard.
I can barely hear myself
think. I am out of focus.
I can hardly recognize
myself when I face the
mirror. I pretend to know
who I used to be before
I made my escape. I let
the poet fade away. I lost
the desire to live and
breathe literature. I feel
death perusing through
my verses, shaking its head,
realizing it will soon have
my corpse. I imagine this
is just a phase. I will be
someone I was meant to be.
I will stare death in the face
and write about him in the
past tense, as if it is nothing,
just like I intended to be.
Blood in the Snow
There is blood in the snow.
There is blood in the trees.
Through the fog blood flows
in my country. Every leaf is
stained with blood. I see blood
in the clouds. There are nests
full of blood. I see the birds
and the wind carrying blood.
I hear the groans of birds.
The waves at sea are filled with
blood. I watch the fools on tv
with glowing praise for the killers.
Dress Up the Tree
I dress up the tree
with birds.
With my hand I pour
water
all over the roots
and trunk.
I caress the leaves
and carved
heart on the bark of
the tree.
I feel its pulse with
my hand.
I feel its warm blood
cooling.
The birds sing and make
their nests.
The branches are strong
and thick.
The tree will live on
after
my demise. I would
never
have it any
other way.
About the Author
