Direction (a ghazal)

there’s all sorts of people who can sell you maps
all handing you destinations derived from direction.

signs and syntax and symbols all favoring interpretation;
as hard as they try they can’t prove the direction.

I was admiring Her as she gave me eyes and affection
and would follow Her grace in any direction.

street Kids with rhythm, giving fingers to businessmen,
being such strong presenters, not thinking about direction.

Old Men sell papers and wisdom with conversation,
but when asked for the way, they too lose direction.

Metaphorical Jugglers and their easy-ear delights,
asking all to be quiet so they can find direction.

rhetoric battles between people with strong ideals,
telling each other off and that they have the wrong direction.

Televangelists bursting with conviction
conceal your brain and guide you in their direction.

Hotel Hostesses at night, desks with tired agitation;
Restaurant waitresses with bloodshot eyes, losing direction.

that affectionate Girl giving away more than realized,
how does she take me and pull this direction?

Angry Families of pregnant daughters, believing in tradition,
tell scowling neighbors “that girl just lost her direction!”

there’s a Boy getting stoned while someone plays his infection,
believing he’s someone, hearing tunes of direction.

Painters with full palettes, but empty canvases, with
an untrained monkey telling them that they need direction.

lost like a locket in a brown sea of rebellion;
taking it in, taking it out, all out on direction.


hand-drawn maps made by Chatters in boxes
who “find your soul” and point you in the direction.

Mama-crystal-ball has a million ways of persuasion,
and can charge you for all sorts of ways to take direction.

and there She is again, giving me signs but no clues,
I wish I could just stand up and ask her, “what direction?”

there’s a circle of Teenagers, banking the looks
of the Surprised as they awkwardly stare in their direction.

Howard! I’ll call the man that gives correction
Howard; he needs a face for all of his given direction.

Drag Men laughing at their Drag Women, pushing
them into comas of phased expression and direction.

Drag Women with dreams, T.V. dreams, and
dreams of owning T.V’s, see lines between direction.

Mama, did your children see you pull that insurrection,
pull that card and send them the wrong direction?

She still catches my eyes like a light-socket-explosion,
and other “suitors” lean hard, hard in her direction.

Liars who huddle around, and produce soda’s for the thirsty,
shoving them down their throats and giving direction.

there’s a Dad getting frustrated with the child’s determination,
He rubs their teeth with whiskey, and turns them the other direction.

everyone’s best dressed lie doesn’t fit like it should,
giving all the other’s they pawn it off to an unsure direction.

Cities hold Huddlers which cry for attention,
and how can they not get it? I see their direction.

hazed-days bring nothing like a good cold-cloud
of offers from your own gray mind of some need for direction.

so called, “Intellectuals” burn coffee shops for the right
to point and yell at other’s in their level, demand answers and direction.


I look at Her one last time, try to find with a resolution
behind each hand, then I blindly pick one, and take that direction

They all look one place, every single one of Them, one inspection,
of the stars making faces, and wonder if they’re giving some direction.

Me? I’m just handing out clips for some imagination,
walking in circles, and wondering when I’ll find direction.