Tuesday, July 15, 2014


if I picked at pebbles all day long, spread them along sunset park, and walked on closer to concrete than sand, its possible to reach full circle without any footprints. its not that footprints are not allowed, its that they would be invisible even if I made them, as befits the journey, odd and lonely.

there are occasional oases, its not a total whine fest, but the persistent image of voices beyond the living, living through me, mist up the looking glass and I have no reflection left. July and August are my least favorite months, there is a constant predeliction to commentary, doubling back to make sure I really did move, doubling again, and finally, running away from everywhere.

all through this reckless dance, there are no footprints. no terrain, no storms, just a maze inside a paper regime. experience has made me better at stillness, but not much, the urge to control often wins, often makes for interesting scorch marks, all mine, if only. its not a suffering exactly, that would imply more humanness than I can manage. its a blind handoff to the lizard brain, to do as it will,

a certain reckless unconcern for consequences, a frenzy of activity to substitute for any real progress. whatever that means. a sense of forging life, not as a blacksmith, but as a counterfeiter. They're all there, the highs, the lows, the evens, but I have left the building somewhere during the show.

all this criticism for numbness is just baloney, there is numbness everywhere in the billion invisible footprints, going around and around on a timetable to the same places, doing the same things, leading the same life. I see it, but like a puny human, I need to feel it to believe.

is there something wrong with me, but of course, plenty, except when I check out. I am usually perfect when I am no longer around, as a sort of conceptual human. much better than a live person with feelings.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Repost - Tribute to a Thestral

To a man who bought me my first book. and then bought me a book every day and read to me until I could read to myself.

To a man who always returned from the market with at least one rotten vegetable, he never bought what was fresh, he only bought what he wanted

To a man who took ridiculous pride in even my smallest achievements, who taught me to take pride in even my smallest tasks

To a man who disapproved of all my decisions but only opposed the small ones

To a man so imperfect, he instilled in me a lasting contempt for perfection

To a man who taught me persistance with a glass of milk every night. He warmed it and brought it to my desk, sweetened. Long after I kept telling him I cannot digest milk and I hate sugar with it. He never argued and he never stopped. He figured he could fix all my problems if I would just drink my damn milk each night

To a man who could never be there for me because he was too busy breaking his own heart each time I broke mine.

To a man with a voice so sweet I cried whenever he sang

To a man who loved me so unconditionally he set all standards for love in my heart. who set up an invisible force field to protect me from illusions simply by showing me what real love meant

To a man who was so afraid that his madness was all he had to give to me

Thursday, July 03, 2014

of course its not fair

that gridlines read like poetry
only to machines, or near machines
not creatures of warmth and feeling

that most minds are spent in seeing
what lies ten feet around
instead of spinning inside
an underground cave of wonders

that magic happens in a quiet room
without life forms or food
and rest is a privilege and a chore

that some days theres only night
when mommy doesnt open her door any more
and wont come out to play

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

in theory

shifting sands hold no heat, or memory
and despair is for special occasions
light is wonderfully transparent
and unsullied with shades of emotion
flipped torch like into the past
to brush light the future
in a continuous moving blaze
and little burns, large black holes
are figments of the imagination
synaptic lapses, easily recovered
with time, love and laughter 

Saturday, June 07, 2014


the morbid fancies
of fates least favorite child
and the increasingly annoying demands
of the mortal shell
with olive oil and ginger
hacking away at frozen spinach
music trailing into different lands
with sandalwood and camphor
remembering raviraj lending library
where most of my childhood riches
were spent and received
remembering how important
it is to forget