the seventh sense

for our sixth is now taken

by the sway of internet winds

of still humans 

on popular science

and as we reach for a seventh

its vital to diversify

now right now now

and wear a mask

you dam fool

save the trees

 Repost from 2010

When I was in India, I was a grand paper-waster. One of those sinners who will use an entire box of tissues for a morning of sniffles (I also produce phenomenal quantities of phlegm so its public service really). But in the US, even I am shocked by how much is wasted. In cafeterias, restaurants, kitchens, bathrooms, there is a complete lack of respect for paper. In India though, an earnest movement to save paper exists, purely for cost. Someday if I have my own home, it will be a minimum paper place. There will be big fluffy towels everywhere, there will be murals on the wall made of terry cotton, they will be beautiful but you can use them too. The key to making this concept work is quantity, and style. Also dedicated washing and towel rotation timetables. A big investment in beautiful towels. Egyptian cotton with color, form and imagination. Towels will be placed around all water bodies in the house like oases, they will wrap around skins and peek into ears, they will pour from the walls and whip around top speed inside washers. As a bonus, I can change the decor around the home whenever I get bored, which is thrice a day, it will keep me out of trouble. Of course there will be logistics. The flappy will catch earrings and hooks and handles and sharp anythings. The heavy will need lots of support and get worse with water and fall down walls and whiplash passersby on windy days. The lazy inside will ignore morose towels who need TLC, and result in depression. Depressed towels are hard :(. The hygiene will demand paper in the bathroom at least. With a little design and a lot of planning and labor, them towels can be squeezed to drop a rupee into the earthbank

 

and then there were none

 

to do

take numbers, we have the numbers

to cast doubt

on how she looks

what she's doing

where she came from

where she's going

how much she has

how much she lost

to build a fragile little

glass shell

invisible, indivisible

and then the flag will change

as flags have changed

from reef to desert

the pistol attendant

oh by all means

lets go there

why is the pistol out

why is the safety off

why went you away

why are there no witnesses

why is the sky so orange

today

for of course we must not

ask

better to show, than tell

when story fell

you notice I am not

quite asking, how does

this thing work

how is there a bang on one end

and a life ended on the other

that to me

is not important

in the grand scheme of things

if they exist, they once were

on this brand new morning

I had a dream

it was it is

rainbows and butterflies

i'm chasing it

and so my son, 

your grandchild

is eight, and he doesn't

smile as much

as the other kids

he doesnt know

how to ride a bike

or play seven stones

hes never played

more than a little

the ways they play in school

mommys always busy

trying to exhale

his fresh mind

is a blank slate

on which evil constantly writes

some good too,

but we both know

you and I, 

the women and children

that evil always wins

mother, I followed a dream

was I right or wrong?

crayola

the results, of the second quarter

are finally out, and they are

satisfactory, as all people

most eventful, two weddings

two funerals, lots of carpe diem

shacklets in the shadow

a valley of dreamaires

a terrible aching pull of flesh

I never quite realized, was the thing

a prescient dream, 10 minutes

of the oldest woman

and the youngest man

and we need all the hands

to pull us out, said the demon

not just one, your mistake

is form, your sentience

does not follow

nothing follows

this alarming excess

of order in the fields

the wood and the breeze

and I am the chaos, I am

I dont quite know

but then I see you

the lady in red

across time and space

along perfect arched bridges

defying reason, remember reason

with a gimlet gaze of want

and excess is served

against all odds, remember odds

and I often feel, quite solid

the distance of planets

between us, scaled

with a single look

it is frightening

and I am the order, I am

by the way

this darkness is everywhere

I cannot feel my feet

this shock is quite physical

the cartoon wipeout

of she, who yesterday

the rise of strangers

for I peeled the curtain
stared at you, for a minute
an hour a year
and you were hate, like love
you were bright like the sun
you were sharp, and true
beautiful entrancing
but the curtain fell
as curtains fall
the grass began to grow
the miles began to spin
and I saw it happen
and thought to myself
oh I am, I am always so slow
to the uptake, to the truth
then you were times a thousand
and I didnt know, that to you
I was times a million
that warm comforting spread
of backup
its good to be king
the grass does not grow
and the hates are a billion grid
of bits and bytes
growing faster and faster
and soon you see a grid
of nulls, they're all alike
you know some, they glow some
they move some
crawl out their crawlspace
and anger and anxiety storm
on a billions scale
why cannot you just be the same
and grow with the speed
of still grass and bones
do within the do
be within the be
so my sense of order can grow
sating my urge to prove
under pain of death
that I am, I am, better than you
otherwise, in this sea
this infinite grill
whats the point of us?

on peace

and the history of this world
we know how to make it again
and make it better
and we must be protected
from ourselves, for the fear
the bloodlust that surges
to protect us and our own
is crazed and uncontrollable
and hugging of trees
lamposts and buildings
ideas and power binkys
when our elders are dying
our every system under threat
it has to go.

in memoriam

eviscerated with a
her mothers and aunts
lay dying in some nameless
she had no place
to call home
no JC Penney or Sears
for shiny little baubles
no people to call
her own, no people
in the gluttony of power
they took sharp sticks
and drew a future
it was fifteen,
lipstick and 5 inch high heels
split wide open
the baby machine

blades of wrath

for the windmills in the wind
and theres grass in the sky
sullen and dark
but I dont see tomorrow
ok maybe day after
even after I cry
smoke's crawling in the street
but there is enough
its enough I insist
to eat, the trees
are still blooming
the bees are still moving
the forges are all cold
but we get mornings
this morning is slow

night without end

and i quite forgive you
for the shocking things
you said, you did, you are
I won't tap my because
from a long slender
cigarette holder
for I am quite horrible
in all the other ways
we do not speak of, see
so its not charity
so you know
you cannot love me
as I deserve each day
but you do, as much as possible
today and beyond
now can we please
forge anger away
from the transliteral
great leaping black lizards
kiss the blarney stone
take a collective breath
in the most extraordinary time
we will ever experience
step back from the void
and move the hell forward
just please?

red paisley

cotton unraveling
in bundles and feathers
wet earth outside
her line stands, it stays
forever, and another day
I saw her poltergeist
red paisley and progress
how hard the work
how steady the hands
my boring starts to burn
hot and anxious
again im drinking tea
in her lovely grotesque cup
missing ginger and milk
her forest is outside
where oaks once were

for rainy days

on a grey dawn
with an insistent splashing
look at me, look at me
im content inside
the glass house
with tea and samosas
to look to hear and ignore
the deathless pull of space
for we in our autistic dissonance
quite forget respect
for the earth, whose life
is entirely made
of our differences
and you and I, we dance
differently, I do not care
for your same olds
for one more minute, aa
and you cannot change
with the speeds
of night follows day
and thats ok fundamental
not cause to power
your boxes make worlds
and my art makes life
and we are true
in opposite days
to the roots and the trees
the flowers and the seeds
and we will make space
when the bones can sing

a rudaali wake

of the plaintive wailing and the rotting flesh, is the regular one. its not really possible to realize sentience without knowing what without is exactly. all the people who can see thestrals, they know it, they see it every day. the symptoms, the faint antennae, a murmuring loss.

but the flat screened people, thats we, we see sentience upon sentience, and when enough lifetimes have passed, silently through, in a bare minute, death is close, all the time, everywhere. its not possible to see panic anymore, its a faded memory, suddenly loud and anime.

and to see me, is a curse, for I have 3d vision of death. past and future. and of course, everyone shoots the messenger, its a time travelled comfort. but I am not a messenger. death has no message. messages are for the living. I am a nothingness through which you will fail to see, what I already know about the way forward, and you and I, we'll play it out in unison. thats another thing death is. entirely self unaware.

dont get me wrong, I dont hate you. I always love you. but I do know our expiry date. As well as a grocer knows which apples to pick, which to sell, which to eat. no apple is forever. and I want forever, with a desperate seething demand. but the longer we sit at this table, the more we fade, there is less to say, to do. our apple is painted, photographed and shared a billion times. life takes two, ten, a thousand, and we are all absent.

among the blueberry curtains

and zip is only a few minutes to rainy breeze, but cold, so cold so soon, and I cry daily for all of us daily, a few thousand less, every day, every day, as if we are nothing, as if we can never be, and I have a child.

so wonderful in the house, with a husband and a son, so glad I married, after ten years, close to a daily life and death, the gladness strikes. will mother ever come here again, will I go there? will I ever go anywhere again, stuck in a random time loop with no people, no countries, a distant cruel sort of justice, im grateful to have a life. and a thousand more died, on a flat backlit screen.

and now is the time to think of a legacy, I could so easily be next, a random look, a touch, an inability to cope, a sadness shutting down all the fight, where are the children of these old people, why are these infested teeming billions alone? the angle of the wall, has never seemed so sharp and deadly. but no one cried, no one screams, no one can get close enough to each other to bellow at the injustice of it all. who am I kidding, it was always unjust, if you aren't born with certain skins, certain body parts. life is very weird. why that? almost as if, justice were created to protect its creators, and life is for its own sake.

the rage demon

from all the centuries
of wiped yin
still haunting, still a memory
that does not breathe
but is, yes it is
hate, disgust, jealousy, rage
for we forget, we keep forgetting
we're all going round and round
forever, and this is it
you do your part
I do mine
and life, is not optional

neither is hope

the scales just changed

Time, as it passes through
a rainfall shower
is a rush of fear
to a tune, to the tune
but fear to a dream world
is fear to dream
to dream and to do
are quite enough
flooded with kindness and estuary
courage and loyalty
to scale an impossible
and trust, and trust
with eyes wide shut
is the final frontier
the stupidest thing
most days, when I look
in the mirror, yet I
yet we, do it a billion times
most days, every day

Culto, famiglia, la patria, il mio universo e in te - Ferrari

just add water

with the trembling
of fingertips
reaching toward and toward
the moral vacuum
and of course
the thunderbolt
should be
no no a thousand times no
but its usually
who the scapegoat
and this too shall pass
then a thousand years
back in time
to do old old things
the bones just denied
in a new new way
the great leap forward
and meanwhile meanwhile
my dear
the nest is empty
the nest is empty

the abject destitution of woman

for I am now
wise enough and old enough
to censor myself
truly, not in the childs way
of I suck, Im great
but of observer and observable
flying far away to see
a little lump of formed clay
and soon, very soon
I will be, I will become
my own God, for no one
on this earth wants
to own up to me
for creating me, for having
made that bit of uselessness
for what, for love and babies
maybe

the wheel of time

and the ages that pass
are along sunrise and shadow
pull and position
but we are a million years old
formed and reformed
dead and reborn
the memory of earth
is beyond imagining
the shale and timbre
of sorrow and acceptance
anger and cruelty
fetid morass and slow decadence
death and disease
turgid repulsions of texture
timid resurgence of hope
the wheel of time
is a wonderful comfort
for those of us
blessed with a shining memory
of last week

wee wee pee pee

there are only a few places
we go to each day
a few people we meet, we know
and when the mortal sheath
crashes and burns
only a few maggots
a few plants
that will ever benefit
and yet in our minutes,
in our small words
in our billions
we all know the sun
we are all soothed by
the dark night
we all know what is right
and what is wrong
but we have no place left
to scream it out
to agree and agree and agree
on simple everyday feeling
as fact
inside this cozy system
of walls and switches

of the wildly obvious

for it is she, the first mother
the second, the endless
who is life, living
the great unconscious
gorgeous in snowfall
or humdrum in endless
sunshine, needless to say
we're trying
to replace her
with something more controlled
easily managed
bite sized