you open the window to ash your cigarette
because the ashtray is in the other room ashing the joint.
wind enters and blows up the curtains
like a phulka on the stove.
two torn pink bus tickets tumble on the floor
like wounded butterflies making maroon love.
slow, hazenumbed laughs, like the chain
of a yellow cycle, pour in from the other room.
a smile, like a wheelspoke, breaks on your face.
i can never decide whether to call it laugh or smile.
i can never choose whether to laugh or smile.
i decide to decide on the shape of the mouth
rather than the sound, the depth, or the truthfulness.
am i a sad man writing sad poems
or am i sad man writing sad poems?
the saddest of all is the illusion of choice:
ors and ands shining on the shelves
waiting for my eyes to consume them
and my hands to shit them out on the page.
~ ajay
3/6/2024
