creativewriting

Fruit Ninja

There are two knives
and there is a battle for the Lieutenant General.

From the oblivion of Plato’s roof
a golden fruit falls down
and out come the knives
for outcome of fight
and outcome of fight
decides the seed:
the book.

In the book,
the bloodshed of the other
knife has never mattered
In the book,
the meaning is owned
from temporary (matter)s.

It is so dual
my mind becomes its weapon,
because how do you preserve linearity
with multiplicity?
Every second, the knives sharpen.



On abiding the seasons

I.
I remember the cold in my body
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

There was daze in the eyes of the sky,
it had blunted its own vision
and melted down the buildings off their roads.

I was in the white room
they had barred the windows
and I could not tell the knock.

There was that life-explaining roar of the wind,
may be,
they did not let me listen.

II.

I remember the cold in my body
in the pit of my heart,
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

The August was grey
and hinted an October,
but they had opened their obedient mouths
and smelled the plastic lilies.

Their colors were gay,
and not like a hermit’s hut’s kitchen;
they persisted
and those who couldn’t,

they left behind.













Holding

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.

The metaphor of the bird

Image result for Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country
Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country

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.