limestone song

 

I know it must all be perfect, and I know it won't, I won't, you won't. The high notes of Beethoven or possibly Abheri ought to fill me with feeling, but my gut only turns with vague distaste. Whats mine is yours now, and always.

Someday you can judge for yourself what your true sound will be, what depth and motion, feeling and silence, really mean to you.

For now, move with me. In complex sidesteps with REM and Coldplay, gently derisive on Dire Straits, lonely with Suzanne Vega, and wildly furious with Metallica and Rammstein, take these breaths with mine, double them as you will, now, soon, your own time will come.

And yet, someways in the future, somedays, your irregular shape and mine shall join shadows and be, just like today, close and inseperable, and others, we will move ten paces apart and shoot.

We will not agree often, my aged heart will never quite match the speed of your quick new, but I hope we will deal as equals, with respect and agreement of our arcana.

I don't know what is your symbol or signature, but I know I must impose my will for now. When comes the painful day of your own mind, I hope I can be graceful with my hands, and I hope we will have taught you the science and art of flight well.

The fear is now receding, I can already feel the heaven and hell incumbent with you. Thank you for giving me this time, I know merely the experience is a privilege. I promise never to make you my one true love, or my only reason to live. I also promise to love you very much

 

trickster

 

just a small setback
for what is real
underneath the feet
for sounds which ring
when touched under layers
of dust and bling
it may have been sheet rock
in the mists of time
now its quicksand and clay
may still be solid
six feet away
my feet, my dignity
tangle and sink
but my mind
grows clear as day
I cannot dispute
the nature of soil
I can only slide away

 

 

ma-donna-ona-rock

 

but humans care for each other
you're talking to a broken mirror

 

but tears are meant to stop our bleeding
you weren't there when the glass was dropped

 

but isnt compassion a human faith
only while the frame will hold

 

but we all walk, with the same hopes
rattling a bag of jagged bones

 

but I bled, because I allowed your cut
and the path is red, the glass is red

 

but our souls are both, precious and tired
only when glass is left behind

 

but why is your hate, so close to my life
because, whats yours, should have been mine

 

 

prepping for a tailspin

 

what could be the world throwing a new sunrise up the heavens, emergent blue, gleaming slowly, is also sheer panic and clinging to an old worn heartbeat, mustnt stop, no matter what, or all will be lost.

the long black boots, the odd huddle of bright clothes on the floor, the storm outside, the shapes and corners protected from rain, the concentric squares of gadgetry, the little minutes between music and pauses, everything is on the balance, as we go tumbling off

this speed is but a roaring inside, the sky, is detached and blue, also cloudy and beautiful, the horizon is untouched

there are pills and potions to curve a banana embrace around the screaming heart, there are numbnesses and soothing noises, there are breaths that can be taken oblivious, there is an eye to cloud lock that can be held with fierce concentration, reality is but a switch away

reality is neither relentless nor still, its more strings of excitement and calm tugging from both ends, it is music, ebbing and climbing, it is a curiously dissatisfied onlooker claiming balance among chaos

somewhere beyond the sky lives clarity, with a straight line horizon and five pointed stars, and to find it, there is no other way than to believe and keep looking, even as the ground is rushing up

 

depth perception

 

my feet have seen forever
in the void, and clawing out
but my hands dont open palm
life is far more beautiful
from the inside, and you
my mystery beyond reason
at the peak of a vista
why do your eyes
stare down the void
how does your compassion
move mountains,
when the object is you
how can I hate you,
I dont even understand
the essential you

 

 

bells and whistles

was it an old door, frozen compressed,
rusted by flashes of heat in the edges,
in a stone wall, pockmarked with oil,
sliding across, in stylized drips and curves,
the wood rectangle in between, untouched by grease,
you know it will creak, if it ever opened
a wishing well, an enchanted garden, a magic faraway land,
what would the other side be
maybe the same underneath, concrete and brick, brown painted,
artwork on oils, eyesore, veneer, finish
some doors must always be tried,
and when the skin lies, ask the debris

another day

 

Somedays the bandages are unwrapped, for miles and miles, so many, I forget what lies within

Its not the healing grafting kind of nick, new skin on old, its the kind that stays exactly the same, an edifice on time, a Great Wall, if you will

You may see some erosion, some weathering, but I forgot how beautiful were the neem trees growing beside, I forgot the old singing mosque and these bylanes, full of birds and smells and plastic shops

But thats all in passing, after all, The Wall is the centerpiece, its the caption on the brochure, clenched in my fist

It isnt, of course, the right thing to do, or the wrong that matters, its the thing that takes the most courage, despite the frozen fear condensing in the corner of your eye,

Courage cannot lead you false, its always dragging you to a mirror and a bright light

Today I was able to look, without flinching, I think ill call it progress

 

a moving target

 

between sharp reflections on the ceiling, from car-trains, flashing into incomplete night, ideas melt and ebb, waiting for dilemma and nirvana to meet, meanwhile

there is the changing of the drapes, the trash and the heat. the bargain of a day exchanged for a minute on the street, take it as you will

there is also, the marketplace, with the hungry hourglass, built with pieces of my soul, and many more, built to last, they say, but human with a hole

and then the carnival of magic shows, karpooram fumes everywhere, sweet and obscuring and faintly divine,

the doors, slamming up and down an endless corridor, the chaos of unromantic art, that forever comes and goes

and of course, no mistaking, narcissus and the translucent snake, trailing ashes in his glittering wake

renaissance is no longer the bat-signal in the sky, I drag it thread by snapping thread from little particles of moving light outside, wash it clean of a million clinging illusions, before I can make it mine

and yet, the destination, hasn't changed, it remains worthwhile

 

still life on the wayside

 

there must have been
a living road among these ruins
a day must have dawned
to laughter and proud ribbons
today the sun grows relentless
on a perfumed hidden corpse

the grass has promise
the brush, trampled and torn
is still alive
the gravel is still marked
with footsteps, fleeing by
without a compass,
or a balancing pole

one day comes,
a torchbearer will slip
set the remains aflame
a brushroot weeps
on gravel each day, hopeful
that tears will work
that feet will learn
that water won't burn

 

it was a dark and stormy night

 

mice blazed trails across mousepads, tweets buzzed and swarmed like a curse of locusts, "WTFs" were carried like torches on mobile screens, facebook updates arced across the burning sky, sound systems screamed with death metal, ipods vibrated with playlists of pure destruction, spam mails fell like torrential rain down garbage shutes

graphics cards inhaled memory like water in a desert, fraglimits were reached in record time, missions were completed without a morsel of food consumed, dragons fell whimpering to level 20 parties

multiple rounds of lethal opinions were fired at soldiers and innocent bystanders alike, governments toppled down narrow treacherous popularity polls, celebrities were revealed all the way to their exoskeletons, public images splatted like flies on a windshield

the nightmare child slept, with a half-closed eye

 

 

Another year goes by

This one didnt really register in the parade of life passing my unseeing eyes, all that bling, such a waste on me, one flash and im blind for the evening. Its not a morale failure precisely, its a fierce concentration on a distant dream that changes every day, and changes back every night. Doesnt leave room for any external input. Pointless of course, but isnt everything?

I'm too old to be anything but decisive. these opinions are now direction, these vague hopes are commitment. The lines are getting darker, and colored in, they no longer run together or outside their boundaries.

As a means of progress, I finally understand, that our sane and sensible selves are incomparably lame. With the blessing and curse of seeing too much, faith never worked in suppressing this mundane evil.

I'll never be a fan of rules and boundaries, but now I come ready with a down payment in timemoney, when I want to breach either, getting away with it is no longer an option, its the morose realization that someone is going to pay, might as well be me.

My feet are more resolute, they walk only as far as they want with the road, they will always walk away from the worship of cashmoney or human edifices of blind hope.

I am a roamer, its what I do best. I no longer fight the path spotlighted for my life, it keeps me moving, and I can change it at will. At 32, im a sports shoe ad, so be it.

walkathon

 

the sun here is sharper, more direct, fewer layers between me and the cosmos, as I walk in it

baldly put, my journey has been a series of repetitive walks down a few disconnected paths, with rebellion every now and then, when ennui sets, its been fantastic and horrific, its been life

im convinced any journey involving one or more humans, is a saga of mishap and ugliness, tantrums and lewdity, coincidence and work, sometimes leading to a satisfactory billboard, if you airbrush it right

the danger in these harmless human pastimes, is the addiction to the airbrush, the growing belief in its invincibility, its wielding as a weapon of mass destruction

returning to earth is such a difficult process, fraught with unconscious denial, and the very human impulse of exalting-obscuring, a direct gravity journey with a lot of bullshit

in this present moment, warm and endless, I find myself quite bored with immortality

 

 

changethought

 

between answers and reprieve, ill take reprieve any day, I am yet to encounter a truly satisfying answer, that did not have the lurking human hand behind, molding false and fearful, holding steady, until nemesis, a whiff of time, and a shower of sparks

my memory is divided between what happened, and what might have, both strands equally strong, I think my shortsight has something to do with it.

the night began alive, lighted and still, skyscrapers shortened by mist, one nightclub stabbed a roving light into the clouds, defiant against the steady rain

the day dawned long and lazy, the motion sensors yawning and unused. to brush off some lint from my soul, there was a brief monologue expounded by a dead guy, Arturo Vivante, on pieces of paper, soggy with misuse and age, his, mine.

the petunias are flourishing, they've changed color since last summer of course. they're still delightfully generic, and quiet, silence is getting so very important with each day

I did three things together, solid and liquid stuff, easily distinguishable from oxygen. and oh oh, I made a minor decision, with a helping hand, of course, thank you helping hand

soon more days will crowd on my skull, roll into one, clamoring at my conscience like shrill cicada, acrid and creepy and non-existent, but so loud, as if a continuous noise can miraculously produce form,

I have two minutes to pause and write, I have reprieve today

 

 

present, teacher

 

them of us who dream at the moon on ocean
then set sail on low tide,
hack our way through blocks,
move inch by inch with darkness all around, solid and unrelenting
a complete ignorance to daylight, navigate by sound
no periscope, see out, see in
us who dont fit in neat slots,
no appreciation for piled up motifs on skill or craft
compared to the priceless of original or true
a noxious dislike for "time is money"
price tags with tickers, like grenade pins
pull and this delicate apparatus, will go off
count fifteen seconds, and keep running
destined to become, DH Lawrence's tedious links, between cause and effect

 

 

tinkering in the forge

 

a warm fire blasts, close to mortal, playing with colors on a flat light, dabbling, awed and blinded, slowly drawn, addicted, to the possibilities between light and death

for years and years, there is only light, too much. but slowly and louder, today and tomorrow, the music spins. in ballet whirls, in sparks and slivers, curve ribbon slashes, in ebbs and flows, in perpetual motion, blood and tears, with no direction, but inward and around, in no purpose, but the rhythm of the sound

sooner or later, the harsh endless light has changed, from boring to rich and intricate, the pattern is laid, the ground glows ready, to freeze the best display, as life

now this ground is sacred, no trampling, no teeth, until these hands have tugged long and deep, to pull this seared image out, increase a dimension, and allow, touching

and all the reasons come crawling, sentries out and about, fearful and loud, ominous in their shrouds, demanding a silence, swords drawn and trembling, spawned without mind, snarling to be sure, the pattern is safe

the new dimension was pulled off, the castle a dream came true, a fountain in the garden, a kindness in the breeze, a couple of sentries dozing, a watchdog at ease

but the reasons kept circling, vile weapons on the loose, threats chained to smiles, force dug deep inside, the reasons still demanded each wide-eyed visitor, in a wheedle, cotton thong, a poor imitation of song, you should, you must, you want, you need

and a listening philistine noticed, the discordant chimes, the yapping at the heels, doomed curious to ask,
why this proxy addiction, to a favorite delusion, why must you make it mine?
why not simply call off your damned reasons, and say, I want

no reasons ever understood a why, the philistine was silenced, the castle quiet, the reasons flung adrift, without their favorite lie

no destruction burns grander, than when reason pursues light, searing and slowly, the castle melts back into flat lines, the light too blinding for ashes, but enough for the reasons, to dissolve back into the forge, happy to have been alive

 

bad bad genie

 

came true poof, on a bad bad day, with a mirror for me

turning smoky knots to deny my each wish, waiting for my words to rain down on me, in acid and waste, so determined, so sure, I deserve nothing

and my curse of wearing a mirror for a face, it returns to become you, the worst in me, the failures, the lies, these houses of cards built on parasitic opinions, trembling in the rain

chanting so hard, in my name, taking so many pasts, that belonged to me, turning somersaults and morphing, showing me all the faces I used to know, that belonged to you, and therefore me, each face talking with me, telling me, sure, so sure

I am nothing, or I am you, my choice, ha ha

and your wishes come true, my fear and anxiety, of being so real and awake, in someone else's nightmare, being called my name

the ghosts of my failures, too many to bother counting, come true in your hopeful eyes, preying on my mind, sinking my forgiveness with the dire need for it, severing a tenderly held webwing, one last connection to my other reflection

I keep thinking ive been decapitated, its over, i'm gone, theres only my shadow left, parroting speech and miming change, you won, your wishes came true, mine came false

but all I have to do, is walk beside a few falling leaves,

and know, like magic, without question, between tears and thankfulness, my greatest wishes already came true, yours came false

this stirring in the wind, is my true reflection, so strong it no longer bothers with visible light, walks unafraid beside me, through you, doesnt care that you exist

and the blessing of wearing a mirror for a face, returns to become me, turns to look away from your smoke reflection, disgusted and relieved, its just another face

 

 

these muddy waters

 

offer a two-toed diagnosis of truth, distasteful and quickly cleaned up, sprayed over with cucumber and a hint of musk

every sentience is doomed to ignore its own breath, stab at immortality, float over the crunch of gravel beneath its feet and form a guilty alliance with itself to hide ugly, gut-wrenching fact

but this world can never be pristine and endless, if our apparition were clear or unreflective, it can never be alive

if we will consider hate as the voluntary about-face from the love dispenser, and worship the necessary up-face toward our own impossible greatness, I no longer know where to look, to believe in anything, my feet have gotten boring

yet if this life flowed on a bedrock downstream, and never looked back, or up, it can never be convincing enough, irony hardly justifies oxygen

no its delusion, the raison'd'etre, keeps us deserving - strapped and alive,

delusion, nature's own pyramid scheme, selling the greatest parodies of truth ever unveiled, the smell of earth on a dismal rain, these perpetual dawns, promises of new islands when the world has failed,

millions and millions of little delusions of insignificance comfortably linked to a vast and irresponsible delusion of grandeur

and the truth? a hysterical joke of course, that may never be spoken without a fake red honker, assuring the world, haha, just kidding, never fear.

 

 

front row seats

as long memory serves now, I sit on them fences, indulge my pensive, hands folded, my weight driving the stakes deeper inside, powerless, yet not. I listen to all the voices coursing through the dying wood.

these fences, they become so important as I age, they stretch so long and deep and around, festooned in opinion shaped light sources, electrified by chain link judgements, blissfully uninterrupted by original thought. solid to the onslaught of change or moral courage, their stakes cause irreparable damage under the ground, beyond the sky.

they exude the wood magnetic, solid and gas have interchanged places on the compass I carry.

for rules of a mankind that parted the ocean and built the seas, put stickers on each constellation and a price tag on each evening. moved and squatted under tree after tree, as another mankind followed it around cutting them down. of faceless denizens unknown to most, save their own dynasties, clinging to an identity only reasonable by birth.

a mankind shifting foot by foot across pavements thick with stereotypes, as it sings haunting litanies about the road least travelled. this is no mankind for the weak hearted who would flinch at the first sight of blood. this is no man's land without the hate, that kept the singing numbers in check, barely concealed resentment will hardly do.

spiders crawl through these fences all the time, demanding little pieces, large chunks, eternities, of my loneliness, asking for that which they must not ask, asking that which I cannot give, do not want to, yet asking, all the time, speckling and burning, seeking.

they own most of the cracks in my reverie now, their webs poised at each turn lassoing silvery slivers of web across each defenceless tear, building a nexus to crawl through and run around in general busyness. racing with a species of feverish activity always mistaken for action, to feed.

the intertwined barbed wire webs wind treacherous, their annals curl scorching and sharp. I wish I had the final answers I was promised with age.

I remain pointless yet, all I can try is to swerve as often, as gently, as the driver seat allows, from direct collision with green envies and red rages

the track is damp with disuse, the fences are burning, I have to care


In the auction of the Mind of Man, you have yelled out to the Universe the lonely vowels, I-I-I-I and heard them echo back a whispered ... "Yes, you are ..." - Sophy Burnham

this elusive tick-tock

fitful and grown under feeble light, enough

to see, roaming wolves and fodder called

cornerstones of survival

and so, civilization simplified

life regressed

my tears are not worthy of this occasion

they laugh and refuse

threads hang loose

blind folk on the streets with blades

cut glass, cut more

black cats hiss on broken mirrors underfoot

temptations of arcana

two minds rebel, drawbridges slam shut,

the castle spun a few times, for irony

this world has not changed

but the mirror once flaming

is an old woman, anger weak

there is now a thin red line

cutting the chaos of fate within

and the fate of chaos without

kinship left, sympathy survived

I am just one pawn

on the empty chessboard

hop step two, step, step,

fair-game playing sweet-song

slow but sure, comes the other side

shadows materialize to make it a game,

the knights, the horses, the king-queen all