Monthly Archives: January 2010

Mr. Unknown
his flesh is composed
of twisted and crumbled paper,
which interlock to form his body,
a body, which is covered with a wrinkled skin of glue.

Mr. Unknown
his veins are a bunch of pens
burned and fused together,
twisting and turning within,
they are stained with ink,
not blood.

Mr. Unknown
his fingers are ten crayons,
his tongue a paintbrush,
and with them he scribbles and paints
images on the blood red canvas of my heart.
The images transform into sounds,
the sounds transforms into words,
words in my mouth.
I try to speak the words,
but I am silenced
by this system, by this censorship.
Mr. Unknown is poetry,
Mr. Unknown is a part of me,
Mr. Unknown is poetry,
Mr. Unknown
is a part of me….
Mr. Unknown, or better yet poetry,
is a dying artist
lying in my soul,
hurt,
wounded,
and decaying
because of this system,
because of this censorship.
We can’t speak words,
but they will paint the walls
with our blood . . . .

On a clear day
if you look at the sky
with imaginative eyes
you might see
millions of blue doves
lined up in columns and rows
with their wings spread wide apart
and sewn together
feather with feather,
one blue dove with another.
I shall return,
return from my journey,
I shall return to your arms.

On a clear night
if you look at the sky
with imaginative eyes
you might see
millions of black crows
lined up in columns and rows
with their wings spread wide apart
and sewn together
feather with feather,
one black crow with another.
Their eyes sparkling white.
I shall return,
return from my journey,
I shall return to your arms.

I shall return from my journey
holding one blue feather
and one black feather.
I shall return to your bed,
I shall return
holding the feathers in guilt and shame
knowing that parts of the day and night
are not even great enough gifts for you
so I drop the feathers
and make another journey
for another gift . . . .