Incessant as the wind

Incessant as the wind, growing fabric of air as
The whoosh settles down.

Incessant as the wind, gnawing out fungal roots
At the core of mottled being.

Incessant as the wind, groping at straws of lazy
Noons and evergreen nights.


This ruckus of storied time

This ruckus of storied time, passage of night
Styrofoamed day, meandering hushed blues
Crying noon songs of choked tears staining
The floor red, this ruckus of storied time that
Makes new the revelation, brings forth the
Trepidation, and shouts out the abdication,
This ruckus of storied time, this passage of
Grits stuck somewhere, finding not noon
Solace but evening shade, red with expectant
Markings etched on the face of a sleeping
Priest greeting you once again with open arms.


It is the I

It is the I which goes the distance
In becoming the tiny truth that 
Pretends to see the distance in
Believing the littlest and the stone.

It is the I which toes the grain’s
Burden in revealing night upon 
Night, in giving vapid vent to the 
Inner dark and the outer dark.

It is the I which grows the pining
Upon the bark of rootedness when
Solitude is pretending to root for
The uneven solitudinous retreat.


If it is not enough

If it is not enough, this passage of lugubrious atoms
standing as if there is no wall to silence the screams

If it is not enough, the morphologies of distance and
their formation of stars in the dark recesses of time

If it is not enough, those eschewings of sentences
which are like habits of the mind lulled into numbness

then the gradation of blue can be treated as shades
of violent greys and limpid yellows, then the fulfilment

of time’s unceasing gasps can be held in your fist
and stared at for a long time, as long as it takes.


Sophomoric dystopias

The trebled bases of time, the languid
Sophomoric dystopias that fill your livid

Bases mingled with sweet morrows and
Shaded hapharzardnesses climbing out

Of some noons which are shaded with
Syllabyllic time, shepherded once again

With rhyme, bespectacled with the rhythm
Of time, and riddled with the conspiratorial

Factories of many days, many nights and
The leftover grains speaking less loudly 

Only because of distance, a distending 
Distance stretching out because it was due.


Changing the world

Changing the world one axiom at a time, one
Axiom offered at the altar of the sages who

Have pounced on Zeno, pounced too on
Pythagoras, for having enunciated truths

That have nothing do with fact, the horror
Of horrors, the sacrilege of ignoring data.

Changing the world elliptically as prescribed
In the constitution of the repetitive again

And agains swerving the elliptical orbit to
Move onto its center, gravitating left to the

Right of center, to prove once again in its
Againness the repetitiveness of the curvature.

Changing the world one hypothesis at a time,
Undoing one misrepresentation or better yet

Supplanting a suppler more pliable more viable
Representation in its stead, at a time. And giving

Vent, breathing room, walkable-in-a-dangly-sort-
of-a-way space, one cubit of space-time at a time.



Begotten in the sand where for long the granulets
Have sought to be drained sought to be soaked
In light

Forgotten where the land meets sky lining the curtain
Of time with a resin thin enough to not give a damn
This way or that

Beholden to a truth closer to a lingering than a calling
Closer to the thin shroudiness of evening than to dusty

Forbidden by laws that permeate your skin and travel
Duty bound to places objectively untold materially un


sukooN aur masti

sehpehr ka ruKh-e-noor ab sehr ki aaR may
kya kare jub
        neend ka nishana-e-zauq tharra ker
tumhaari mushkil ko aasaan ker bhi sakay or
nahiN bhi

kya yeh shahraah-e-farq sawaad-e-harf se
itna juda hai ke rawish samajh nahiN paati
        ke subh kahaaN shuroo hui aur shub
kahaaN tamaam; teen din Thehernay ke baad aur
teen raat

kyuNker ye bahaar-e-Khauf sard madhdham roohoN
ki kaawishoN ka zamin ho sakti hai? jub rah
        takna lab-e-farsh se uTh ker muNh moR
le to tum ye samajh lena ke sukooN bhi hai aur
masti bhi hogi.


Capturing less and more

There are so many arrows flitting about capturing less soul
and more the foul There are so many depth ridden fleeting

forays into summerhood that capture less whim and more
the resigning chime There are so many guilt laden mindful

strands of bile guilelessly capturing less din and more the
shine that heeds not, bleeds yes, thunders less and less.



When the gone tawdries collect woebegone dust
And resettle on colonies of ants and moles
Bit by a fever of callous callings and dry
Recollections of a past that never was and a
Future that will never be, the here and now
Will of course be host to tawdries, of necessity
Collect woebegone dust, all the while resettling
On colonies of ants and moles.

When the fever of callous callings and dry
Recollections bit by the recollection of a past that
Never was, reach out for a future that will
Never be, the gone tawdries have naught to do
But collect woebegone dust and resettle
On colonies of ants and moles as the here and
Now is host to tawdries, stricken by a fever
Bent on biting, the fever of callous callings and
Dry recollections recalling, reaching out.