Wednesday, December 29, 2010

In My Room

In my room, it’s always sunshine
With the lights off; I don’t need them

The back door is always open
To squirrels, and strangers
Who walk by, saunter in, use it as a second entrance

I wheel about in my chair often
To meet a few raised eyebrows
I look up and turn back, and sing a song
With my voice touching, and soothing

Someday even they will be gone.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010


You are sitting at the crossroads of the world - one block to the left, you can see a maze of cars. A shiny revelation, display of steel - cars forming a sea - unbound. Out on the street, there is a crowd - apparently, all of us are together. All around the cars, there are rising buildings, housing mothers and young writers. All of us thrown into equality - we share a common something.

But in every house looms a dense, and lean smell of post-modernist loneliness and confusion - a hunger for contact - a dearth of interest in life.