the exact middle, she claims
i'm neutral, she says
i don't pick sides, she proclaims

no, no
the exact middle is never
the exact middle
of nothing

we are always in the middle
of something

when i hear her say,
"you know i've never picked sides,"
what i really hear is:
"i don't care enough to care"
"my comfortability, my ignorance, is worth more than someone else's struggles"
"my silence is more important than another's life"

what i hear is you giving up, giving in,
because it's not your problem, right?

no, no
the exact middle
is never
a "neutral" place to be

I walk along a trapeze,
palms sweaty, legs shaking,
refusing to fall either way.
to go left is to fall into a fire
for a life which burns my bones.
the people will smile upon me,
oblivious to the ash surrounding them.
to go right is to fall into soft trees.
the leaves caress my skin,
but the people vanish like smoke,
and I fall to the ground.
the exact middle is survival
until I reach the other side.

I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.

So long since I had you, you used to ease into me,
slowly, up my legs you crept. Slashing into my
native origins, you made me moan, you made me wait.
I used to rush you, then again, slow you down. I haven’t
felt you in a very long time. I miss you; I need
you to ease into my loneliness. I need you to thrill me.
I want to feel you again, over and over and over.  

It used to take a long time for me to feel you. Since I
haven’t had you, the wait is nerve racking. The wait is
increasing my desire for you. I don’t want to be insistent
but come to me. In the middle of the night, in the light
of day, when the sun is shining, when the storm is
brewing.

I want you in me, I want you now. I want you to know
that it’s hard to live without you, it’s not easy having
to do without.

I dream about you sometimes, I miss you ‘cause I can’t
catch you like I used to.  I get a taste of you only when
my memories return. Last but not least, I want to feel
you again. I want and need you.  I want you to smash
my body with an explosion that I will never forget.


I want you to assume the position and hit me with your
best shot.  Knock on my doors, I will let you in without
a doubt.

Come to me, will you please hurry!  I’m waiting for you to
re-enter my world. I can’t wait any longer, I have to
have you. I need you inside my world. Here I am, let’s
get it on. I need you, I want you, and I’m ready….

Dear ******!

Bankrupt of his majesty
the would-be, could-be king
falls into a paunchy old age
Quite literally

He was young once
the would-be, could-be mogul
fell into addiction, hard times
Quite typically

Now hobbling into oblivion
the would-have-been, could-have-been
falls for a younger princess in her thirties
Quite predictably

Standing taller
his would-have, should-have, could-have
falls away in the reverie of romance
Quite nicely for a time

Until his old habits hurt her
his should-be-s apply to her
falling in love hurts them both
Quite a bit

She was young once too
a would-be, still could-be
falling into the trap of thinking time is scarce
Quite often

She's teetering on oblivion
the would-have, could-have, should-have
falling for the allure of what-is-not
Quite hard

A patch of gray hairs dust her widow's peak
would-have, should-have covered them
falling in line with what's expected
Quite easily

Bankrupt of her majesty
the would-be, still could-be queen
rises into a vulnerable middle age
Quite determinedly

Och! Airn an’ Thundir! Great Orrah!
Ere ye a' sune an’ syne fast, verra fast ***,
Wae Verra Skye-Storne Hye,
Skye-Unleashed, IT! Clitheroe's Gory Orrah!
Frae mah Burnan’ Skye-Rage,
An' unco Airn-Curse o’er ye a',
Downe, downe! owre downe!
Theis Moorlan Firey Grass flyin’,
Dinna Daur! Ah say, Dinna Daur!
Tae mah Verra Skye-Roaran’
An' Skye-Furious Bellum, Guid Orrah!
Nae tae baith nowe listen!
Nor tae set futis ageyne, Ah say!
Wae yer unco dishonorable duds,
Oan Theis Verra Nobil Glamis’ Hal’,
Kingdom o' Scotland IT, Airn-Auld,
Robert th' Bruce Micht,
Ironclad, her Ruler, wae Wois Loud!
Fore, ne’er, ne’er, Ah skye-yell;

AH UNCO WADNA!
AH UNCO WADNA!

Great Guid, Verra Guid Orrah!
Wae mah Bleezan Skye-Blade o’ War,
An’ Verra, Verra Guid Gilded Targe,
Auldfarran, juist twich ye a'!
Whene'er, an’ unco fore’er,
Intae THEIS DEEP LOCH O' RID HEL,
An' thro' yondir War-Thundir, och!
Wae mah Skye-Skean steel-fechtin’.

Can we think old thoughts as thought by earlier readers,
without walling a mind off from all we know,
which Hobbes had no way of learning,
though? No.
We need this knack of we being, a you and a me, seeing
an I, in a time long ago.

Egalitarian sortings of men, arrogation worth,
a-dam, novus knower,
acknowledge me your equal? Dare ye, I may be a fool.
Levelers were around, in Hobbes's town, taking time
to bring the highest minded down,
not to lift the baser sort up.

-- none the less, lime the branch,
-- by chance a bird may bring a word, watch

we heard, the deceived received a reprieve,
we've found the edge stitched in
second thoughts and other wise guesses as good,
good enough
to keep life as we have agreed, conserving
the power in the
word - life as in -- we live, not me without you or we
without all the otherwise functionaries,
maintaining the planet and aching
to settle down to day and night,
just right.

Balance in being part of it all,
restored,

for a second there, didjafeel it?