I am still screaming for the last time,
ravaging the ordered garden
with the taste of unnecessary trees.
Believe me, nothing seems natural anymore.
In the caption of my eyes, Staten Island hangs in blue,
beneath water hyacinth hides terrified water.
The more I see the sea in dreams and cry out: "Ulysses! Ulysses!",
the more God holds him captive in a solitary cell with cruel hands;
like a pale patient I gape and stare at
mother's dark face in the doors and windows,
her illness growing at forty and her shattered dreams,
father's blurred wallet in his breast pocket,
on the midnight cassette plays the poetry circle office, the cricket field
and my elder brother's helpless account
of returning empty-handed from university meetings.
As if all the city's songs play in the voice of a destitute Beethoven,
sister's sari-end flutters on the commercial firm's veranda,
God places invisible locks in the hands of darkness;
I'm not surprised to see
pornographic magazines on my younger brother's study table.
Believe me, the world is slowly melting
like ice—melting at the touch of ruined water.
Father, your microphone's morality, your talk of ideology
lies dead today—in this sick sanatorium;
in the palms of friends my age
plays the pure water of marijuana;
cupping both hands into a megaphone they shout
about not finding life's believing roots.
How, father, in these visible dark times
shall I listen to your words?
Rather give me that microphone.
I will stir everyone with cries and clashes,
break the black hands of darkness,
light flames of fire in every locality.
And through this microphone…
will play that faithful song—
the song of drawing forth
the infinite source of chlorophyll in trees.