A rant at Shankar Chowk

I ducked out of sight and ran across the road feeling sexy wearing
who-cares-what afterall if everything is well defined all we'll get is a restaurant
menu a well gilted a la carte lunch followed by everything that is true- Italian coffee
or a café au lait  each name holding the mystery with which carrots grow - amazing joys
of being buried result in imperishability   of all the things  Thank God!
we hindus burn the dead. It is not joy. It is 6pm at Shankar Chowk  it is time to
breathe we breathe. The clouds are the teeth for the sky engaged in chewing
the judgments  of our coal industries cars tempos vans eighteen people
trapped in a Shankar Chowk auto well arranged like petals in Japanese Buddhist
poetry falling timely one  by one it is not joy  it is a stampede across
the sun's chest by migrating birds The sun should get back at them when it's equator.

Up in smoke

i stood between my lives
lit a smoke with one
and put it out with the other,
We burn until we burn...

the kitchen window-
a mynah watching me
break morning eggs

A Sentimentalist's joy poem

(For you)


While writing for you last month

I cremated my self on to several empty

sheets of paper. This week I hung them from

a wire in the backyard and they floated as if

they were cheap paper cups, I had always drunk my

whiskey in. I hit them with fingers very

gently and the sky was an ash

grey canopy the entire week is what took me to realize

you have confiscated my senses and

the key to a  perfect metaphor.

Stairs, of wood, each, one hundred and fourteen

years old became silent in time once you, stepped

in. It was as if you owned the very place.

Skytalk

Clouds repose
waiting for the wind
to stitch them together
Little birds
homeward bound
fend smoke
Chimneys look up,
waiting for the rain
to wash their eyes
Trees look down
as if trying to move
blood in their heads..

A sleepy street

Lam posts whisper
to each other
about things on the
other side of the road,
that they wish
they could see...