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You try to get Kurt’s Slapstick. Damn torrent does not open. hei ! ho! Some more lonely. I have a cat in the cradle. Which means out of the bag.

Nice, nice, nice.

Midday Nap

After mid-day meal is heavy-lidded nap.

A woman is holding on to the iron bars unwittingly . I sit under the neem tree ,with a dog bark tickling my right face. A bald man is waltzing near the iron bars .

Morning after midnight I heard Funes , the Memorious. He was gorgeous pre-blind Borges on a visit to Uruguay. Funes would later fall from his horseback and discover a new phenomenal memory.

He would name each of the numbers up to 21,000 or so and remember to call them by the names.

Was it a bit of needless extrapolation?

I do not believe it is real. But Borges story is itself unreal, partly blind. His books stacked up to the roof and he could read all of them with the minds eye.

But Funes cannot generalise. He cannot capitulate. He has details that do not add up.

Soon he would become homesick , sick of a  home  away from a home where  coconuts danced  all night. He would go to bed and not get up. To a bank of numbers and notes.

 Small numbers run up to big ones where they swallow the small ones into a big  sky of a billion numbers where light is distance , not sound. You keep a day book of numbers but your red ledger is quickly filled .Their figures enter steel cupboards where they would live for the night. You forget to take them out next day.

 (upon the passing of a senior colleague in my Bank)

Sitting on a parrot green branch in another park (still in the making) was preempted by a sleeping dog near it. The park is still making. The man who is building the park is biding.

I am back to the old  green one. A man sits on the neighbor bench making nostril noises. He is biding till his lungs are full with wind .

Biding time , your old poet says. The poem of today was his biding. The dog in the other park near the parrot green bench was biding . The man in the Municipality who is making the park is biding.

Biding is an organic thing.

Grandmothers are a context from our river spaces.They are our context to explain our why. And how.

Grandmothers sit by the river.They are the egg-heads whose stainless steel bowls glisten at the bottom with a hundred rupee note by us.

A grandmother who had earlier forgotten a mind has now forgotten a body. Soon we will forget her body in her ashes. Ashes are easily forgotten. Grandmothers are so easily forgotten as easy as their forgetting minds.

But their context is not ashes.It is a river that flows to give us our context.

The dark poet blooms his hopeless verse .Does one unbloom? Like unhope?  Dark poet believes one does.

Unbloom is a systematic obverse of bloom .The dark poet puts the blame for your darkness and mine on mere casualty. It is such a random thing .No human God is responsible for it.

All Gods are human and married and when their time comes they go to the forests .They fight ten-headed demons and leave their wives in the jungle for their chastity.

Unlucky for you that you can’t pin the blame on an angry God. When bad goods are delivered to you, it is a random act . Shit can hit any fan. Gods are just casual about it. They are merely human.

So we bloom our hopeless verse. In them lies no hope because we have only to unhope .

Bits of the cloud are not big enough for hills to obscure and eliminate but enough of the vapor as though they spoke white words of passion. If it rains they shall disappear in tea bushes.They are self-destructive,you see,in the hills.

They enter your bed rooms, to the fireplace but the fire got put out during the British days and there are some cinders and charred logs. But there is no danger of fire singeing their flanks.

They freely move about in the room touching cold cheeks to remind their lost youth. In the mall they spit vapor to make ghosts of men in long overcoats, their cell phones placed in ears to prevent from singing needless songs in them.

If they enter ears they turn into a buzz like bees.

Big ears make star man feel naked to a desert wind and train sound. In glimpse of mankind’s depravity he loses nakedness to local earth when he loses his remote to stars. Local gods are just duplicate gods .Help calls land on wrong numbers.

Here we have to increase ear-size to hear a star’s light on our backs. Our ears come in standard sizes. Starlight seems glowing dimmer as desert sun is glowing warmer on our highly clothed nakedness.

(Watching a fantasy Hindi movie titled P.K.)

Belong some where, a place or thought .Otherwise you stand out, all eyes on you- none with you or your music or the wind.

In the night those tiny parijat flowers actually belong to the dark neighbor of the red and yellow house with a woman hanging out of the white parapet like cloth.

Their fragrance does not belong nor she. The parijat belongs to the wind and death. She of the parijat house parapet belongs to the evening and the blue sky of rain.

My birth had happened too quickly as though it needed to happen .Experience then sat on my brow. I remember the first cataclysm when it had fortuitously happened in the green sea of nothingness and there were no words.

There was all-around green fluid .My breathing was slow and rhythmic .My reaching out was tentative.Now again it is spasmodic and I want to reach out, my palms cupped in clumsy supplication.

I did not ask to be born as mere chemical experiment.

I do not want now to cease to exist merely as another cosmic event leaving a trail of fluorescent words.

Tell me quickly what I shall do with the luminous astral pieces I have been garnering all these days.