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Please mind your gaps, says the poet-gardener of gaps. Poems are gaps between words, their long stretching adding further gaps. The gaps are an emptiness between words like the milk between the stars on a dark night.

O chestnut tree, are you the leaf, blossom or the bole? Asks poet of a chestnut in a jam jar,planted on the very day of his birth. The chestnut dances in the wind and the poet does not know dance from the dancer.

We live simply because we can’t do our complex stuff. We are too much bogged down in words, exploring invisible connections between words. After we die we live our deaths simply.

We live our deaths on our high stools. When there is no rain from the clouds, our cotton will kick it’s stool and its flowers will turn yellow with death . The plants will fall to the ground their tongues sticking out. Our cotton will live it’s death.

We carry on our high thinking regardless .

Now on the neighbor green bench I wonder how my absence looks like on my original bench. There is a woman sitting on my original bench. Wonder what she is thinking about her neighbor and whether she has noticed an absence on her bench. She is sitting on the bench pretending there is no absence on it.

This morning a word came reluctantly about a mutilation. I took it as a wrong message couched in wrong words. I have found out at the end of the poem that poems are made of mutilated messages.

In between there came a fragmentary truth and somehow there seems a linkage between truth and poem .A fragmentary truth will lead to a whole poem . Because poems are themselves fragments of life.

Fragments are whole poems at the end when the epigram comes. Every poem has to have epigram since you cannot leave the loose end hanging . 

Epigrams are a fragmentary truth. They are fragments of our lives.

In the village of our beginning the hibiscus first bloomed in a dilute darkness. It was black to shape. There were bananas whose elephant feet touched snakes of water from the well’s rim. The bananas carried heavy loads of ripeness. They bent of their old age fruit. They knew death lay at fruits end. So they bent of sorrow.In the balcony of our winter the hibiscus blooms red and its anthers bend in fear.

In our beginning village, our houses had gorges between neighbours for shame to pass. Our women carried cloth bundles of shame through them to the backyard well where they would wash our shame.

Mercifully now there are no cloth bundles with maps of our shame.

A cloudy morning. A bald man was chanting mantras under his breath in the neighbour bench. He has just finished his prayers and left.

This morning was about a fatal accident. In accidents drunk steel meets the sleeping road median. The scholar boy who took his life by an electric fan called his birth a fatal accident. He only wanted to meet his stars from Sagan’s tiny dot. The stars are themselves accidents. His death was an accident resulting from his birth.

Birth is an accident from lonely nights. A fatal accident because death is a direct outcome of the birth. Lonely nights are accidents by man and woman, whose births themselves are just accidents . Everything is so random.

Why blame a midwife who is a proximate cause.

We were searching for white shells on the shores of after sleep and we got into leaves,like leaves to tree, or not at all. We cannot take a no from the tree.

We searched for white shells but got brown men in their acts of oppression. Brown men oppress brown women, who want to wear wings. Brown women prefer white men who oppress less. White women too wish to wear their wings against white men. All women wish to wear garments against woman.

Brown women must wear poems not as fig leaves against brown men’s shame but against the inside howls of their poetry. Poetry comes as leaves to tree or not at all . From their men’s shame come their wings of leaves they may wear on their ascent to the sun. The leaves may turn yellow with poetry but they can be used to light small winter fires by the sidewalk .

Behind the saree waving tree, the sun is a low hanging fruit .

In the morning it was a lost thing in poetry of words. The words recalled a body, its journey from the darkness of a mother’s inside to a white wall. The body banged whiteness and a horn sprouted ,a head bump on human aliveness.

Soon there would be ice on the floor and rice flakes outside a van.

As I stand on the 20th floor balcony in Hong Kong I see its people swimming like fish in their lighted windows. Men and women enter their kitchens and through the passageway return to the living room, as if they are fish swimming from glass wall to glass wall.

The countless windows with the people inside were an endless list of fish acquariums with tiny glass walls at the end of their physical movement, where they turn back and resume swim to the other glass wall.

Some times the fudgy lights in the distant skyscrapers looked like blazing wild fires lit in the distant blue of mountains .

Wonder how this purple thing came about this morning except possibly from shrapnel on the blown faces of France . There was an interview on the Bomb. Bomb was just a talk about purple things. We all go purple in our shames.

Purple blood is no thicker than water.
From sunsets of poets to their sunsets
Blood drops from a nondescript bomb.

Here on parrot green bench I sit beside a child neem tree .Before me is monstrous yellow building, yellow like fever. The child tree is waving it’s head playfully in the morning breeze.

Yesterday’s child wants to see his grandfathers village ,which has to be just like Venice. As beautiful as Venice under water .Here in the village you see the men in lower bottoms near and beyond the paddy fields .The paddies are as green as the parrot green bench I am sitting on, with a monstrous yellow building before me.

Beyond the green paddies are mountains with holes at their tops. There were people in the holes long time ago. They were Buddhist monks humming like bees.