In the kitchen’s exhaust the pigeon had gathered twigs for setting up a family.We got them removed by the electrician because the fan wouldn’t move.
The pigeon sits in the hole in the noon and moans. Weren’t we cruel? But now I think the sound of the pigeon is not a moan after all.It may be a mate call.The thought makes me feel less guilty.
As the hibiscus grows, fragments are its separated petals .Fragments are whole poems.
They are petals dropped by a bird’s sitting on the branch.They fall into the dust and join it, with their feet up.
A poem a day ,keeps the apple away .Now we have a poem about a blind dancer, clawing our common space for beauty .We have one for the bypass road, when the city road is clouded with lipids.
You want to document ageing of three women over twenty years? What do you see as the difference in their faces in precisely same positions? More sorrow in the eyes, says the observer.But the sorrow is more in the observers eye.
Got up at 1AM and sleep eludes and poems come.A nimbus poem, a cat lookalike poem, a feral nothing.
Hearts come beating.They wait for a highway bypass.The roads through the towns are congested and heavy with people.
Another day, another color.
I wind up the day .Slip onto sleep and wake up at 3 for another poem a day .Thus will be 2120- something .Hibiscus is truly growing.
In diluting dark of the night like this ,there is Kierkegaard type of clarity of either/or, before and/or after death. When a clarity shines like clear water , the words do not obfuscate sound and/ or sight, but are mere smells from night, its dew on grass.
It is night’s dreams that wake you up and their words do not smell like a night.They choke you in your deep throat , colorless like water , neutral to nose.
Up there they will ask what about clarity ,they ask Kierkegaard-like . You say ,except for dreams that have no smells.
Dreams have no smells
All our dreams we had only a sight, a touch, a tingle.But never a smell .When we dreamt a garden we dreamt about it’s dew but only thought about its smell on grass. Our dreams were colorless and smelt neutral . They depended on a touch of grass.
When we woke up we thought we had felt the smell of dew but could not remember how it smelt.
A crow cawed at dawn suggesting a picture of idolatry, a woman gone to the wall for decorating a living room. The crow cannot be mom to eat rice. Our images cannot eat rice in words. Images cannot eat rice, only words.
We have other images of ourselves hollow men, fleshed out of our bones poor nightly creatures of fluorescence roaming the empty wastes of minds. We have other men with rolled shirts staring from ancient space, not yet knowing my own coming, that meant
his own going from all space in time. There was space only for one of us.
All our images are shadows from past that are cast on our space even after real things are gone except in sleep.
Body is a good name to go . It is , among the bodies as they go and come sometimes only to go. A body is constantly on the go with wind wrapped under its hair .
Body approves mind in the trees and value of their sky looking up, looks askance at wind under door – sounds like rain scavenging night. Body has hobbies that die hard and writes poetry under its hair.
Body accuses with index fingers, it also uses for carnal purposes, for purposes both licit and illicit. When there is nothing to accuse body lies with fingers turned in.
Old lady Luck strikes her waist and below. The masterstroke by Lady Luck leaves her laughter empty. She would smile emptily at lady luck’s random logic and later extend her eyes to bigger issues.
Husband had kidneys that would fail luck. He had laughed out loud in old chat windows.Kidneys do not think beyond their failure. Minus kidney, husband is not his dirty self.
Now waist and above she no longer thinks of a husband with his kidneys that failed luck.
But an old empty smile comes back at you and later laughs out loud as if in an old chat window, in chat with the master of everyone’s luck.
We were looking for our God in the woods and found a log floating on the ocean. We then made log our God , lidless to the world so he can keep his eyes on our safety. God’s carpenter was making his limbs but we were too curious to let him complete them.
Here we were asked who our God was. We were blind to the core.We felt a trunk on our head and said trunk was God. We were too blind to notice his eyes above the trunk and they were too tiny. We then felt the enormity of his stomach that went in splits of too much sweets. The moon, also a God, laughed and now we cannot espy moon in the sky to this day .
The moon needlessly laughed at the stomach and now if we find him we will be needlessly blamed for others faults.
The Morning is Just a Dream 