Inside Your Circle I’m Always An Alien
the best way to escape is to use the fingertips.
by RIC BASTASA
From it some words are shot like bullets hitting anything
But there is no death here.
No war. There is only the sojourn, some moments
of variations like
gyrations of the human body that looks for
some blankets of affection.
The human body is nil now.
The touch is elusive as an ell.
The river is crowded with moss and mud
and the fishes can hardly breathe.
Life, this is life actually
The one that moves lonely amidst the crowd
in the mall one Sunday evening.
people are families. They are so selfish among
and within their circles.
You have none of it. You are an alien.
You need another mirror to see how beautiful are you.
Without it, there is no more light in the room.
And in the darkness only the palms grapple for touch
like grappling for breathe
In order to live.
We make some trades.
I barter loneliness with the circus of my mind.
Acrobatic thoughts, juggling circumstances
Opting for the magic of transformations.
I can be a rabbit and then a flower
and the children open their mouths for me.
At the end, we take whatever makes us comfortable.
It is not always a chair.
An earphone, sunglasses, Chiclets,
peanuts in my hand, or
summer hats, bathing trunks,
or could simply be a book of poems by whoever,
these are the words. We are not the same.
I have my own point of view. I take my own walk now.
Or i shall dance
None of your business
because inside your circle,
i will always be an alien.