Bullets in the Temple

(Poetry Collection.) The question of where to begin and where to end blurs and bends toward an oblivion of irrelevance, silenced by threats of the poet’s pen—his masterful voicing of pretend noise, his wordsmith’s lance, his cursive parlance, his furtive glance, his assertive stance—throws from the balance of some pyramidal pinnacle exits extending beyond every extravagance of credibility, into the uncertainty of any candlelit excursion within one’s own head.

Dreaming open that domed Pantheon of a temple-cum-tomb the inmost sanctum of which dreams echo against, hitting and hinting with glimpses of what emerges—with only you as its witness—where reality and fantasy converge: this purge of the subconscious for images words fail is what ordeal this book undertakes. What translation of symbols its rhythm entails. At great pains to heal, as its chapters reveal wounds in the architecture of existence experienced as exhibits of crimes committed artfully by night.