desi top gear

letting go

tip tiptoe on the folding ledge
sound would be sacrilege
on this picture painting
moonlit night
let summer shed its wingskin
hum the song of belonging
to every pore and fissure
of this beautiful planet
resist hammering epitaphs
along each tempting milestone
let season take its centuries
to heal, this bright night
was made for moments
taken together, one more time
before they are taken apart
on buried bones

the blur of plates

poetry in motion
for the soulfully inclined
ask focus, not design
nor safety nets, nets
are for entrapment, meant
to retire small peaces
that may yet be meaning,
have been will be,
beautiful constructs
free for the free,
invisible to falling plates,
a sky cradle for plates that levitate
by growing gravity, plate by plate

sailing with a checklist

after gathering all the blips of a beautiful day, that should be happy and all that, but instead, is filled with doubt and fear, in equal parts, of where I fall in the rhinestone scale, did I make a passably progressive trail, have I left in the right milestones, the urge to gather a sample set and questionair it...

trying hard to stick to a stream of consciousness, I mean, unstick and flow really, so the artery between heart and fingers is allowed, to peel off skin after skin, mask upon mask, and be true, to mine own self, that thinks the most beautiful things, the most horrific things, but that be life, anything true, is filled with equal parts misery too, and its useless to do anything but steer into the skid and hope for the best, once the determination to leave a positive balance has been established, handed over like an overripe fruit to be eaten or thrown

my age is all caught up, the free ride is almost gone, the people who people this world cannot pardon a me without clear outlines and a trail of paperwork, which I have of course made a trail of paper boats arranged in the stream, in the rain, just because, the trees are so green and beautiful, and if we must waste paper, lets waste it right, instead of filling it with pointless things, and leaving them in stiff stacks for more of.

this age brings with it more slowdown, urging me to practice waiting right NOW, to spin the coins and march no matter how they fall, or when. this age is unwelcome, brings with it more fears, more weight of big important labels that I stick on my boxes, before forgetting what they mean, what order they go in, which boxes have what, and why boxes.

this soul is still a little deaf, the memories haven't faded,they are all there, waiting to be examined, and delighted with or cringed from, but they come slower now, after multiple stops to decompress. the silences have gotten longer and stronger, and the things I will do to avoid words more determined, this life is now a length of knotted string, well anchored, and yet, and yet, tangling wildly in the wind, ought to be a straight line (now where did that come from)

aside from the somewhat plaintive wail at linear time piercing through irregular space, I think life is good...

wobbling to the halfway mark

good gamblers never bet
the cost of their freedom
no matter what
good winners
see the lights
the fireworks, the ocean
reflected in their eyes
and remain still
calm and unsurprised
good losers
cry a billion tears
before they get up to try
again
good lovers
invent a pupa every day
with their soul inside
good soldiers
only aim and spin
the best they can
never let their goal
expand
good humans
do what they can
and forgive themselves
life is nothing
a trial version
expires, no matter what

djembe on the carpet

lies in the wobble zone
between silence and energy
relies on the temp human
to tilt for sound
clumsy but hopeful
of memories in song
spoken in the language of hands
distinct from the worry of minds
of dances in staccato
untangled from hearbeat
of a tune louder than the nerve
in the temple, closer each day
to the final beat
of music earth and sky
threading an unknown inventory
of careless discarded breaths
careful saved breaths
with faith in the age of feet
and fireworks


All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view. You are not going to be able to give us the plans to the submarine. Life is not a submarine. There are no plans
                                                                                                              Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

high tide

the barrier was made of sand
piled up on the tallest dune
in a furor of activity
ants queued up in the desert heat
as sand slipped and time seeped
the hourglass flipped, the world changed
the barrier switched, the desert set
and water rose
sometime when the moon is pink
there will be no shore left
and the ants afloat will think
the barrier was made of water
and history will switch mediums

builder cmon!

the decor need not inspire poetry
but for heavens sake
its not a castle in the sky
haha
lay a foundation, dance the dance
on the cornerstone
lay it on thick, thats the better
of many evils
unlike a rickety rock that sinks
or is thrown, to bring down the whole world
every block matters, every note inspires
or sinks, your choice

he who measures the worth of his life by counting his gold, is he who measures the worth of a house by counting the grains of sawdust made while building it.

                                         - Hammerite Quote

yes im quoting from a videogame, yes im a nerd

footprints

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.

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

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 

blending

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

darkness

we are often mistaken
for when the singer is
imprisoned, the song does not
quite die, it simply
changes color to blue
mourns the freedom
celebrates the mood
then changes again
when filled
with sunshine and madness
we are often mistaken
in the business of refraction
by the tree in the forest
we must mourn its passing
before we find it

house of cards

no connection with
politics or Kevin Spacey
I am dealing with 3d today
instructing hands and feet
to live outside the Director
busily engaged in computing
the opportunity cost
of gathering a pack
of scattered cards
as time slips steadily
down a 3d slope
and yet the hands are moving
gathering, sorting, counting
54 cards, jokers and all
must have the right number
to build a house

the clamor and the hoarse

sometimes it gets unconvincing
as if the dirt path
solitary from birth to death
doesnt really exist
as if chatter, enough
can explode the fish bowl
teem it with color
or crack it with force
collect all the droplets
that arent tears or rum
and make an ocean
if we look closely
made of pixels
disgorging pearls, all the time
as if time didnt exist
sometimes the skin itches
as it tries to wrap around
the energy of forever
in the accounts of a day
and turn a profit
whatever that means

stomber

at a blinking yellow
where fools rush into
ice that slips into
slush that runs from
its annual home
my mood is dark and filled
with a mercy that dare not
speak its name
with sadness in a steel cage
rolling headlong regardless
of red or green

sorrows in the deep

the last thing I hear
each day is the song of quicksand
as it reshapes the world
and reclaims me
each day I go deeper
wondering why I cannot
merge and follow the stream
as it becomes ocean
flow like quicksand
before it flows like me
I wonder why I feel
so madly deceived
as I sink down alive
buried in victory

nothing to sneeze at

its no coincidence that
I be pointing to my weapon
constantly
look, how sharp, how ready
to swing, with a back wind
even if it never swang before

its no coincidence that
I spend two hours each day
scraping at a stone
to maintain my pointy edge

its no coincidence that
stuff gets sliced around me
if I let my locus lapse
for even a minute
after all, we are contagious
hatchet hatchet

frozen solid

not just the roads
with some bit of effort
a complete disregard of
my commitments
a solid don't care
between myself
and the many decisions
that remain before death
or next week, whichever comes first
an unnatural lack of fear
about any futures
a cozy forgetful
of horrific, also boring, pasts
a few snuggles with
other creatures of warmth and love
you will NOT believe how many there are
and how few we are allowed to touch
and I can almost be
filled with happiness
excitement, anticipation
suchlike, is the point
surely?