The Noresoup Jukebox

i was silent all May my voice must have passed with the spring  i believe it will continue into June be it summer or monsoon  heat or rain with their tangible fury all the love that kept me warm November to April autumn to winter were all a farce, a cruel ruse disguised as formidable lovers loyal to the pretense  leaving just as expected  my voice ever so coddled by the spirit my faith could not satiate in that abyss of solitude  north wall of my apartment  bleak was the future before me, near and far and speech could not convey to others the aching - long were the silent conversations on my bed quiet was the hope that gets one up loud was the silence

i know it is like the sight of mangoes before you get your hands on them lovely, yellow, bright, desiring, yearning, longing to take a bite like the  pot my grandpa used to brew red tea, redder tea and the occasional arbi stew like the  tombstone white from fresh carving, dust on my hands from the touch colour darkened from the crying i know it becomes the  rush of joy, first bite, juice dripping down the hands hands full of something holy like the pot that holds the stew for a family, the tea for after the stew the pot washed and dried on the rack like the touch  that keeps the mold from flowering smoothening the rough edges weeds pulled, thrown to the side. i know how it can be when the hand is empty and the not knowing settles in -  left alone to deal with the stickiness it leaves behind it could be the pot collecting dust, collecting dents now used to keep old trinkets no longer heated, only stains remain from the brewing, the stewing it could be like the st...

  on this week's blasphemy  i cannot un-fear death it is too deeply ingrained in me on today's existential dread this meaningless treachery today's menu, yesterday's ramen  tomorrow's sermon for better servants  i lay on the highway behind the pews on tonight's agenda a slight delay coffee spilled on my laptop, the start of my sombre decay