Quiet creation surrounds
thin-lipped conflagration.
Living, breathing nuances
speak dockets of cursive myopathy.
I forget myself in crowds
hypnotized by blood, plasma, + sweat.
The brown sounds of dusty cows
+ dark eyes
become ancient memories
+ fuel melodies
of packing never-ending reams of laundry
into suitcases + herding unwilling travelaitrics
into ornery schedules + transparent prison cells.
We are at the mercy of the tour bus now,
praying for a bit of sun without the glare,
the tender heart of a kind stranger,
pretending that shelter makes a home,
that tarps make a wall;
we retreat into timeless mores of right + wrong,
as time + space make fools of mothers + fathers + hope.
—Omar Azam
Omar Azam, of Chicago, has roots in Pakistan and India. He performs writing of all kinds and believes in the total freedom of the artist. His poetry is influenced by the modernists, songwriters, visual artists, madmen, and storytellers. His poetry has been published in some of the best little e–zines out there, including Anastomoo, metazen, Clean Sheets, and vox poetica.
Publisher’s note: This poem has been previously published at ditch magazine.
