If Eve had written Genesis

“If Eve had written Genesis, what would she have said about the first night of human love?
Eve would have begun by making it clear that she was not born from anyone’s rib, nor did she know any serpents, nor did she offer anyone apples, and God never told her that giving birth would hurt or that your husband would tell you what to do. All those stories were just lies Adam told the press.” Eduardo Galeano, from his book Upside Down.

If Eve had written Genesis
the disconsolate flicker would
                         be just that, a flicker;
                         the moonbeam would
                         cast moonshadow in
                         with the child's mooring
                         of play; the capital of
would prance about in other
capitals, all shucking class.

If Eve had written Genesis
would she have stopped mid
                         way and utter a soul
                         ful harp, a glitterful
                         cup of wilful lore of
                         that crusts her, chucks
                         her rhyme and seems
enough for traffic to flow, for
greens to align with the pink? 

I hogwashed the noon

I hogwashed the noon at midday’s
strike; the hen of my moon is

telling me to go and rise above
flotsam. I say, “flotsam is not what

it is.” Epistemology confounds the
hen and it circumvents argument

calling, “afraid, afraid!” Yet
there is silence in the cull of

the argumentative hen; its moon
is red with soothe and I rest my case.



the elision of river-mud is river’s
right, the cast of stone is the

stone-monger’s rite of message, when
the cunning door stands, the clumsy

floor recoils, and the stone is ground,
the bits of elision sink without clever

eulogies or stamps of door or the bard’s
ink leaking stone, leeching mud of floor.


the sting of argument

the sting of argument partakes
in vessels that clank that

sink dust that climb up the
tale of the brother’s bother

and sink dust; the sting of the
argument pieces you pieces the

thought of you pieces the silence
that crumbs the master’s will.

the rapt of silent grief
is fire; tends to the river’s

halt and its precipice as it
bends its curvature in subtle

proportion, the decay of pun,
the plum revulsion of enamel.

sing away the kite song, daughter,
and sweep night’s will into

a clever thread that will beckon
sky and dread to lull you to sleep;

sing away then the song of the kite,
daughter, and weep night’s will

into a solemn ravine that will
hold the sun when your song is done.


Connected Space

Where is the astute set of
Connected points that greet

Your short wisdom, your less
Than, or more or less than?

What kiln would store the
Burn, the stick, the rank

Of the hole that bumps you
Out of dimension to meet?


damage, residue, solidarity

I. damage
the evening sentinel
the morning cartilage

as easy reflections
tons of ruminage

cant, loft, sift
sons, daughters of damage.

I.V residue
left-right, what resides in
the tilt is the residue of

guilt, the absence of mother,
so much kill, the fuel and

the rant of the duel and
the slant and the starch.

II. solidarity i
the solitary craft is the solidarity
of it; the voice of the bard is the
bird in it; the click of the far is
the beckoning, the suit of horror,
the reason that earth chose sky.

II.V solidarity ii
in solidarity with a thousand points of light, with the germs
of steel, with the hobbits that pretend to know how to mate
and game the blasted parrots repeating a tonic line; in solidarity
with the statistical limit of many, many points of night converging
on day, with nasty afterthoughts mingling merry, mingling fairydust.


seeds of foretelling

the instrument of verse dare not
catch hold of the reed that counts

each admonished preposition wishing
to join in, adjunct, contra, sideways

as two lateral geometries isomorphize
as two mismatched galaxies fuse

their stars into becoming nonsense;
the incarnate verb goes missing.

the flint is girded and there is talk
of how they laid siege to the town

that fled the scene that bled the
song that read the signs of fire; the

flint is beginning to see the child
of fate that marks the beginning of


the sorry ending of the meandering
village tale goes out to sea and

brings the cup of reason a leaf,
an adverb and a frowning war, to

be clever in anticipation, to know
what every mad knife swells to cut.


an obdurate urn

an iron filled fleck
an iron filed fleck of necessity
gritsworn bedecked with halflives

of a temptress cross with lump of
life; this is the throat of truth

gurgling away a stuffed waffle, thin
slices laced with cinnamon and doubt.

some talk of a hilltop
some talk of a hilltop is given
in the grammar of

snow, some dearness is lost in
the gravity of

stone, some trapped air is sunk
in thin foil

sheets, some lost noun is wed.

an obdurate urn
my grit is yesterday’s homecoming
filled with a round cup of loss, a
weather worn slide into din, where

wonder is laid bare and vehicled
as the tenements of clawing necessity
are mightily sworn off to fluff. The

revenue of respectability is a blue
collar ringed with a slight tinge of
an insane pallor, an obdurate urn.

this hour at hand
when harm opens up the space, the
ground that bleats the past back

into now, when deed of yore is
seed of blight, of creed, is that

when you know your care is craft
is need is hour, this hour at hand?



how will song pre-empt the copy/paste,
the representative mission to undo

and redo the repetitive? the gated
halos are symbols that will cut you

if you dare to sigh, to sing another
song: the other song that has to be sung.

bring in the salve from the
halo of rough, that contains

minarets of soft stone and
fine eye, of a remembrance

that beguiles the stone and nicks
the eye before it can scream.

the befitting crumb will fall
as gravity is recalled from

rest, the halo of weight is
determined to accede to simple

things like drawing a trapezoid
with a compass, pencil and shut eyes.

“The novel’s conclusion is a picture of the two of them now perfectly content to copy their favorite ideas faithfully from book onto paper.  Knowledge no longer requires application to reality; knowledge is what gets passed on silently, without comment, from one text to another. Ideas are propagated and disseminated anonymously, they are repeated without attribution; … what matters is that they are there, to be repeated, echoed, and re-echoed uncritically.” Edward Said commenting on Flaubert’s novel Bouvard et Pécuchet in his book, Orientalism.



ab Khwaab ki vehshat ka koi
waqt muayyan to nahiN; ab kabhi

soz ki lazzat ka tum kar lo jawaaz;
jo koi rok sake tum ko to jhuTla

dena; kuchh kaminoN ke ta’ayyun
ka gila ker lena; ab mukammal hua

aKhbaar-e-juz, chhin chuka
himmat-e-sawaal; ab shukar hai

ke tumhe muslehatan dekha hum ne;
kaun jhuTlaae ga kis taur se hoga

ab hisaab? iss tarah Khauf hi
chillaata hai sannaaTay may.