Reams of paper dropped into a dustbin like fallen hair

Paper clips will jam the shredder. Why do you need to shred? Confidentiality is supreme like facts. It’s the language of engineers and statisticians and some sly wordsmiths. Accountants are human and fallible. They guard the vault-like numbers. I do not envy them. They may manipulate truth like poets. Scratch that. Any dishonest vices lead them straight to jail. Funny but I only have two thoughts about them. Before they get to jail, they develop dark rings below their eyes. The nights must be sleepless. The other thought is secret. It is so unmentionable. And you thought accountants are tepid or lukewarm. They will ruffle papers and prepare checks. They’re all about balances. What sort of person goes through each month obsessed about opening and closing balances? It seems pretty much a bane to be led by the nose by something other than meaningless sentences. I admit I’m totally biased, not surprising since I lean towards poets with sexy chests and scruples. My wallet is fat with receipts and a photo of you. When the air around me turns into acrid smoke, there you are. Is there any truth to writing sentences? If I scribble a number, will you believe me?

unrhymed animal

Terrified –
of hunger, a scrawny stick of straw.

Mortified –
having tumbled headlong into brazen hay.

Petrified –
feeling the proximity of a ghostly shadow.

Stupified –
nuzzling inside a goose-feathered pillow.

**

A bird perched on the grille.
Are you sound of mind, it chirped.
I don’t feel insane, if that’s what you mean.
Minds think they’re sound, but aren’t really.
Facts are what the mind grasps constantly.
Like a table, a chair, a desk lamp.
Eternal truths hidden between facts,
become straw, embedded in feeling,
intangible like shadow.

Why do birds fly around in circles?
Like a formation, a tribal dance.
Maybe they like to wind-surf,
gliding eddies of air currents,
hence the saying, you feel free like a bird.
Birds are messengers of the spirit.
See them soar!
You’d feel like spreading your wings.
Figurative wings might save you.
When night comes, an animal gets down
on its haunches with another.
The weight shifts, once they feel
rustled, light as a feather.

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“Being human”

We’ve been there.

“It’s all my fault,” said the director.

Yesterday’s streaming of our very own reality video of Jack Neo doing his own Tiger Woods news conference. Jack, he’s a Singaporean film director of Chinese language movies. “Money no enough” (1998) launched his fame. His affair with a young nubile actress in his latest movie, “Being Human”, came out of the wormwood this week. Cue more confessions of earlier affairs with other young actresses.

“Because I love Jack. I love my marriage. I love my family…”

The news conference ended with his wife’s physical collapse.

**

Can you miss this veiled feeling?
Kneel at the altar, suck the gum.
Foot in mouth, you want kissing.

Prismatic colours in the numb
pierced your eyeball, a sensation
rocking the eternal conundrum.

Moralistic prigs of a married nation
clicking sounds of endless flashlights.
The guilty look away, say “He’s human.”

Where comes the human blight?
Is it the failure of love? It must be,
somewhere, the stealth of night.

Are we so different from bees?
We delight by looking and feeling
petals, poking for honey, maybe.

Oh, no! It’s commitment you’re missing,
Honey. It’s not just do the hokey pokey.
Love isn’t groping. It’s really deep kissing.

Lord, are we back to mere kissing, Missy?
Follow instincts, but pretend we’re not animals.
Penises obey reward, vaginas cry, “Fill me.”

Listen. Men like Tiger Woods have the gall
because they’re just receptors for dopamine.
Men like ball games, women hightail it to the mall.

Depressing! Modify behavior with oxytocin.
Magic hormone makes mammals monogamous.
God, it’s nice to know we’re so not vermin.

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parakeet

A frantic parakeet mimicking the dead,
sudden lurched outside the door of cage,
odor of decay lining yesterday’s newsprint,
ascended toward the minty forest green.

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