udhaya's prosody

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Truth

on May 23, 2004

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is the potter's wheel
but in the hands
the stories lie

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night out

from the town square wet cobblestones shine down streets spreading out in every direction like fingers of a furtive god chimney smoke lends elegance to moonlit silhouettes somewhere not too far where it's closer to closing time accordions and violins fan the private whispers of cafes into public cheer random drafts tease pigeons off their habitual lamp posts bicycles footsteps whistles and laughs amend the night's quiet rain gutters bleed angel tears down alley ways that narrow beneath distant arches like keyholes to heaven

Flipping off Goliath

4 rolls of quarters hanging tight in a tube sock rolling around my wrist veining through my fist come on all you takers i’ll swing till my truth wins your switch blades don’t scare me your handguns get the odds but my honor gets even when common wisdom says pull back we swing out bare chested youth maybe wasted on the young but time is wasted on the old it’s a pipe dream to you what if i surf through? our blood is up our path is clear rage is its own reason sometimes apathy is treason shattered bones in swollen casts arms in slings like warrior pendants crutches hold up broken pride hope the casket’s got none inside but the insult will be defended any day for sure beyond any measure fool’s gold won’t shine still this is what I treasure

War Hero

suited up with medals and pins the trouser crease can cut some skin rallied by the hometown pride they say he cleans up nice "Welcome home war hero" say the parade and banner in his honor squeeze a smile for the front page there's a dance behind his eyes where truth hits the floor Where lies spin in circles like the wind on his armless sleeve Stop-gap measures have broke the gauge he's lost count of the unliving Will someone repair his rage? "Welcome home war hero" say the parade and banner in his honor squeeze a smile for the front page it's many moons now since the parade Benefits are still not here yet Jobs he got don't pay the debt he only wished for a few modest things none of them fulfilled except that one about a body bag now the weapon's been seized flag's been folded embalming fluid restores the look wounds unseen are still undressing Farewell tour of duty the gun salute was rich irony

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