There is the circling of eagles in the deep blue sky and the sound of the flute, as if emanating from the tendrils of the new monsoon borne porcupine-ed leaves and there is then, the drilling noise that must overpower the hum of the traffic or the worker woman’s bangles, clinking with the fidget of the soul moving inside her palms
In all these spaces I tell you to find yourself the emptiness that is pleasant in the patience of a house plant that stares out the window everyday and feels the rain in dripping shadows– I offer you cold loneliness
for the times I cannot offer you the warmth when my fingers touch the sides of your hand, the spaces between your fingers the moving of your neck– the bed of your amorous speaking, from where you will inform me of my once-again distant absence
Then, I give you my absence for you to hold and believe my presence in your palms once again.
How many times have I criticized the metaphor of the bird, when my mother would say how free is she and I’ll put my hand upon my cold forehead, It doesn’t ring right, I tell her, it is a projection into wishful thinking.
It is unruly for you, I tell her, to fly without airports, immigration officers, the office cicadas, the old regular bloated system to color within the lines, the patterned sweat it brings upon your back, the despair of the black and white, dust-colored earth that holds your feet.
I think of the rain– often I wish to sink in earth, in a paradox of feeding back the fertility with a gift of sleep, and perhaps the satisfaction of a life-long debt repaid is the final flying.
There was a whistling right after the morning fell off it’s egg shelf and broke in the tundra of life-leaking toothbrush basin, like some rabid dog tearing nail for tooth
My hands with some old mosquito blood caught a hold of this insect and placed it upon the bicycle of a man selling sofa and cushion covers; as a result, it dilapidated it coughed– ousting the vigor of the southern spring and other marooned extravagances like political declarations, love-promises, essence.
In a small monotone my morning paddles with this man, dragged into the sullen of the afternoon, laid with the song of a distant Koel bird, It is now put to rest, put to sweet-sweet sleep.
Bad days don’t happen to me with the first hyphenated ray of the million mile away burning mine, when, perhaps, the bed becomes radioactive and with an incubus-poise presses upon with gravity, and insists to stay– yes, there are these days too.
But for me it often begins with the corner of my lips stopped amidst a curving of the smile which echoes in a closing space of the borders between mockery and applause and then the glass slips out of my hand the fire would become stronger in the stove and I won’t hold my pen still, neither do my words –the solemn heat sensitive bugs– would brief my tongue with language and so in the dying light of a “good day” morose, I become clad in all this good gone bad.
There is a closing at the door the man stops– the foot rests under the table, his hands reach out to the ceiling past the moon past the stars past the stars above the stars, where does the eye end, in you or in me?
I wonder if roots growing from the ground– the mother, relish in her own irony, repetitions, cycles of unabashed hubris, that render us all in pain and then, we are cynical in laughter with everything that has gone by in acknowledgement to the mother who took us underneath before we could even be born and so we make a father out of her in revenge, in her own clay.
Oh I’m sorry I cannot be of any help I am pulling off an availability bias, my dear restless person, A click-bait and we are in the keenest intestines of the search engine now, Should I stay or should I go? —Sunshine Posters, Good synonyms for Happy— I wish you could be happy, because I am not I wish I was in the woods, a child with Red-Riding hood And I bled away the day I knew I won’t be set free in the fourth shelf of the Fiction Rack. —Ideas related to the flower pot sitting on my senior’s cabin— Do you know how utterly boring this is? You selfish ogling monster. Know thyself. Yourself. —Next up, fourteen ways to win a poetry contest!—
She climbs down a staircase But in my harbor There is neither a She nor a Staircase And it is just the gin I drink every day, which assumes A form of pirate’s gold smudged with the regular green muck Found at the bottomless goblets of the brothel house.
I know her. I have bathed in her mind and body. With a housefly’s busy routine, A bull stirs me In a jar full of magpies, I’m a crow, I deceive And so I am deceived.