Author: nomisyar

I collect Spores, Molds, and Fungus.

Future

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Our Future is in the hands of illiterates.

Cultural illiterates,
whose sin runs deeper
Because they know better,
But they choose worse,
Because they have earned it,
because they have
earned the right to profane.

Rich histories breed hubris and ignorance
The wisdom of the ages is traded
for knowledge and a Masarati.

So where do we look,
if we cannot look inside?
How do we find the road
to prosperity?
to inner wealth?

Little Gracie,
I give this all to you.
Because I have no choice.

But,
I love you
As I wished I loved me.
As I wished I could love me.

Like an old man trying to return soup

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When do we lose them?
Our balls…
Our connection with the grimy earth, with the real?
When do we give up and allow ourselves to desire
the constraints
Of mediocrity
And fear
And expectations?
When do we stop dreaming
and believing in the incredible,
the impossible,
the sacred
That is us?

When do we become aliens
To this very earth?
Who we should call mother,
…whom we all smother,
With our fear.
Fear
Of our

Potential.

Interim

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Neither here nor there
I am here
Here.
with the Hoff.
What better time to contemplate the crossroads
When sailing through this
Ether.
MY heart SCREAMS
In perfect harmony
With

Why won’t I listen?
Why won’t I try?
To fly
Is too much.
But
Would I die?
No,
Nyot yet.
Nyot yet.
Not ever
While I can still hear
The sweet symphony

Sailor who has never been to sea

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Two steps sideways,
One forward…
Clickety-Click
Clackety-Click-
Staccato steps
propel him
this way and that.
A smart double breast
and Chinos to die for.
A carefully trimmed
grizzled beard
graces an impotently roguish face.
Memories of deeds never experienced
comfort the tipsy old man on his walk home.

Alone

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After her folks sailed across that wide blue sea,
Her Big Sis left
Left her long before was right
But she had her bro
Her belly-mate
The one who entered with her
But now
He abandoned her
He is off
to what
is DEFINITELY
A better place.
He is gone,
And she is alone.
A son, a husband yes,
But what of her roots?
What of her home?
She is alone
And I cannot,
I cannot
But I will
try.

Don’t Touch!

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vodka tinged tendrils reach from the drunk’s mouth to
grab hold of the knot in my chest…
The knot I did not know was there
The knot that has already loosened itself throughout my body
And threatens violence upon those who tug without care…
Watch it son,
I’m not dancing with my father
Anyway old man, you ain’t my pops
And yes, worry, I’ll be taking the lead.

How

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do i prioritize
what I feel?
Anger-
Pity-
more Anger-
Fury even.
Where is the pain?
Where is the sadness?
Where is the sense of loss?
How dare I feel pity-
I am ashamed to.
But how do I balance
this anger
with more anger.
I doubt not the fundamentals-
I learned well from Job
and his arrogant catechisms.
I know how it works, Simba and warthogs and rain…
but what of empathy
for a life not lived?
what of anger towards those who chew away at the soul.
and vomit hate and abuse?
Is my soul’s rage OK?
well I hope so.
Because I feel it roiling…
and sorry chumps,
feeding time is past.

Going

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Teeth are itchy
Like the pre trip jitters
But this time
I will physically move
To another land
Not just in my head
Heart racing
Or did it just stop?
No, it only skipped two beats-
That’s all
I’m going
I’m going
I’m going
For the beauty of
Return.
Come
Back
Come
Back
Again