i) flecks of the improbable, seen
in the nonsense

light of expectation ii) tripping
solemn, light,

as if crusted day is slave to the
roving eye

iii) so many statuettes of hope,
so little time

iv) we shall agree to meet half
way and then let

time absolve us from ever having to
remember v) the

having of the needless eye needled
into extravagance

vi) spools of nervous laughter asking
more from less

vii, viii, ix) the cathedraled temple,
spectacled toyness,

dry embrace of the relicced other.


Sidestepping tradition

You sidestep tradition, its mope,
Gather, drool,

Drop and muster. You prolong its
Swipe by terror

Izing each syntactical misappro
Priation & why.

You sidestep the wish of
Reason, its

Meandering in cesspoolish
Wonder and

What is ought

But the thought out rut?


Tagore Kabir XV. A million is just short

This is the ninth post in the Tagore/Kabir series.

A million is just short
A million is just short of a
Billion; the
Vishnus and Brahmas and Krishnas and Shivas and Indras, their

Anchor is surely just sort of a minion, and minions
Do not go gently into that good night, brother, and the

Depths are not plumbed by
Following; nor
Leading, but by sinking and singing, by the float of the play on

Vina; the flowers and scents of sandal are the
Good night, the crumb of the good good morning.

Tagore comes short of Kabir

II. 57. jânh khelat vasant riturâj

  Where Spring, the lord of the seasons, reigneth, there the
    Unstruck Music sounds of itself,
  There the streams of light flow in all directions;
  Few are the men who can cross to that shore!
  There, where millions of Krishnas stand with hands folded,
  Where millions of Vishnus bow their heads,
  Where millions of Brahmâs are reading the Vedas,
  Where millions of Shivas are lost in contemplation,
  Where millions of Indras dwell in the sky,
  Where the demi-gods and the munis are unnumbered,
  Where millions of Saraswatis, Goddess of Music, play on the vina—
  There is my Lord self-revealed: and the scent of sandal and
    flowers dwells in those deeps.

The three eternities

1. Reverence is the greeting of summer; it is
2. Bound, which is truth outside of
   Matter, truth in thrall of antimatter
3. Convergence is the ball of fiber rolling you towards three eternities
3a The one which 
       lies low, the
3b One which hides from the line of sun, and
3c One which is you/asking
   Me deciding/

poet as project

the poet as project as

of void meets poignact
as cup

of a holy warmth blued

as reverie mix of mint
dew us
This is power robbing what it must this is 
                   power             taint
       moist - throb
       ss, this is power  - it
       knows    is power             taint
       moist -    rob
       ic e

pre-nouns and post-causes
the valence of a retired morning
finds cause

in split hearsays, auxiliated pre
nouns and post

causes; there is violence in how
the word is



a variable disenchantment

a discomfiting randomness is the sweet rot

a variable disenchantment   many hours of

wither   the trust of ancient syllables in
tincture          I will attune myself to the variability of
                  another chorus, a lifetime of mismanaged i
the grief of not being able to trust in an able metaphor

in the nooks of harm

Once again, a dissenting woe
   gives lie to night’s

Once again, you are tried,
   tired; as the gong

As the mention of sweet
   morn glistens the

Time weeps a river.

When does the sentence fall off the page
& a new oblivion step up picking up this

Wire of dawn? Where do the stains of ink
Perspire if not in the nooks of harm and

The shade of a lower noon? Lower than an
Inch? Wiser than the tooth that carves I

The forbidden spark of a thousand

What?   we care the plenitude into
a stare

We blink coalesce morph stipulate

Into being    the spark has been


When she speaks

– You do something for long enough and patterns emerge. It’s how our minds work; doesn’t take a genius to be a genius.
– You have the tired
Ringlet of shame on your little finger, and
You care; how much is that worth? How
Come you sing your shame, your care?
– The mystic is always open for business – when there’s clarity, he can spout the vague, and when there’s vagueness, he can add more.
– The crime of words is
Father’s chore as mothers live with
The crime of lords – when she speaks,
It is time.


poet as act

The poem of the act of the mind

The act of the mind is rest
ful play

bound as if teeming with meander
as if calm

is not even a distant possible

plonks of wordspill litter the

These words have a wilt too

These words have a wilt too their
Barrage of crispness is tone-deaf
To uncertainty; please your bones
And sly your emulsion, to please?

These words have a wilt too overt
In salute, brief in decomposition
Yet by yet by drawn yet; thimbles
Of uncertainty; please your bones

feet of an ism
How can the unfathomable feel the feet
Of an ism? There is

Prophecy, there is flora/anticipation/
Ground of an ition-

How can the plural of forms reign when
The singular is ar?

Libidinous adjuncts to capital sentences
Multiply issively-


Tagore/Kabir XI. and now I am greatly afraid

Here is the eighth from the Tagore/Kabir line

Tina turns on love
Love, the second hand emotion, a
Chemical dependency that soaks
The inclement, the unceremonious
Lamp, the unguent that sticks, sticks

Like potassium disulphurous bloody
Chloride; the second hand emotion.
Withdraw the veil if you must; your
Body listens hard to calcified fumes.

Tagore turns on Kabir

I. 131. nis' din khelat rahî sakhiyân sang

  I played day and night with my comrades, and now I am greatly
  So high is my Lord's palace, my heart trembles to mount its
    stairs: yet I must not be shy, if I would enjoy His love.
  My heart must cleave to my Lover; I must withdraw my veil, and
    meet Him with all my body:
  Mine eyes must perform the ceremony of the lamps of love.
  Kabîr says: "Listen to me, friend: he understands who loves. If
    you feel not love's longing for your Beloved One, it is vain
    to adorn your body, vain to put unguent on your eyelids."

the thorn of passion
I bore in my heart
the thorn of passion:
Drew it out one day
And my heart is numb.

– Antonio Machado