for October – an excerpt.

The heavy hum-dum of numb dumbbells lazing on a dirty rug

does not rise above this state, nor do the electro-carts that tug

in whimpers at his idle mind. There stirs and falls in random beats,

like hearts half-baked in a searing whirlwind of summer heats,

doses of silence, filtered in cold, frittered in the evening eye.

“It will not be tonight when the world ends.” Only a cycle crawls by.


A new man peers across a ledge, pondering time, pondering faces;

and only a thicket of quiet responds, louder than a din of dank spaces.

It bobs, it weaves a yarn of times. It reeks of a kind of cold, sour breath,

of stories told again and again; a non-listening ear. A certain death.

It is silent here now, as memory plays roughly along the helm of choice,

heaving noise: “It will not be tonight when the world ends,” in a low lone voice.

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