Something Situational Poem by RIC BASTASA

what we write is always situational
and for those who are interested enough
they bring shovels to dig out soil and find the roots
of beauty
which are
in most ways the very roots
of conflict
an inner one

how these roots have penetrated
depths (more than the oceans)

and even broke the stones open
like some petals
of a budding
morning

how these have pierced the ears of
timeso the layers of history
can hear

how these stories have outlived
their
hiding places on
some little lies
in fiction
to give art to pain and make it look like
a scripture

to color its
incoming madness
sufficing
memories with the polka dots
of some
imagined joys along city streets
where others sometimes
take things away from you
stealthily,

those that surpassed hypocrisies and finally land
in the silence
of acceptances,
watching TV news
and at the same time
computing
inner losses
longings that die
on the face
of innocence

i have sailed too far from my shores and in the middle of this ocean
there are no ports visible
the lighthouses have been destroyed by the
recent storms

everything is a dark sky and endless horizons have become our definition
of what eternity is

you see i am about to give up
leave everything
because what is there that grows like grass and weeds
without the fear of fire
is only
anger
regret
arms that raise themselves up
not in praise
but in
surrender

that i should not have entered into that circle
that society have promoted
like a discounted sale
mobbed by ordinary people in the mall

and as you see
i am only moving around inside it and i am already dizzy
i vomit
and i do not clean up
what mess
is there
in front of me
and people begin to question me
about this
unkindness

this numbness that has perfected
the emulation
of a hundred
deaths


this seems to be the bad karma of my own logic
the cannibalized system
full of locks and
security codes
and keys
that sometimes do not work
anymore
where the word fit
becomes
and alien

the object of my affection has
become the object of my regret

disgust is waiting to be told
an ugly face is coming from the mold


i am looking for an opening
perhaps a gate
for an exit

or a backdoor of the dirty
kitchen
where mother stayed for years
wearing no apron
at all

it is not empathy
you are wrong

i do not need it
in fact i have given all of it away
like a political
dole-out
an investment without
any expected returns



what i need is freedom
that white dove with a bleeding heart

it cannot fly
anymore.