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.