I found your book in a line of over-populated electricity, it keeps my head in the flowerless clouds;
your words strangle my breath, it’s like choking on sand that exceeds the semblance of beauty—infidelity branded by Christ, Buddha, Indian dreams
I keep your book by my bedside, then walk
the golden streets of Los Angeles with your heart inside the skin of my leather jacket.
Even the fermented poppies and crystals doused in suicide can’t blind me from your sacred songs—
another man’s lust for poetry I’ll never cease to adore.
* I wrote this poem for a modern day poet named Chumki Sharma. Her book the Shape Of Emptiness is a collection of poems which I can’t get enough of. Below is the link to buy her book of dark and beautiful poetry.