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By Susheel Gokarakonda
Proud January skipped, forgetting
Every lesson from last year, and getting
Muddled in memories, premonitions, resolutions,
Unsure if now, then, or someday held a solution.
He pretended to assimilate,
Instead strained to communicate,
Demonstrate, extricate, masturbate;
Heading to nowhere and finding too late
That this year was deader than the last:
The end of the road, end of the past.
Revolutionary road ends with a park,
No light, no fire, no spark,
Just leftover smoke and stale cares,
Muffled footsteps on familiar stairs;
Apprehension, condescension, intention;
Selfish sighs and mundane information;
The next small step, bite, sip, breath, year.
January skips on with no explosions here.
A steady cloud sits, supports the sky,
The silent city, static structures and walls
My morning madness.
Grey and bright white speaks of alpine larks
And ideas brittle as sea shells spinning
Up and down and cracking, crunch
Behind glasses, I joke upon my ignorance.
My bright eyed homecoming spins songs, fine tunes,
Though earnest, no more than jingles, riffing
The man outside the kitchen window waves,
Wishes me some silent luck, goes on his way.
He still doesn’t know his name is Michael.
Happy in Bedlam’s towers and soaring turrets,
Bow’s bell seems loud and dull; the exultation
Of the wildish heath is dampened by the desk-lamp’s glow.
That vista of vermillion trees around a proud green church dome,
Peeping roofs and laughing wind blown grass, familiar
Sights of springing summer
Scenes and smells and soporific days of sunny eyes,
Itchy knees and dips in freezing lakes remain unchanged.
I still ask what is passion, what’s truth, reason and simplicity
And have not grown at all.