with the humility of a fern deer I will tear out the rain cloud by
teasing out one drop after the other.


whose night-breath is upon us now that the chilllwinds have
silenced the boorish remnants of a dusty year?


oft-longed-for-silence is rummaged about in lustful-annoyance
-that-yearns-for-somewhat-more as it is bound homeward.



Armchair rests on its laurels, its foundation laid in fifteen


examples of chair-some-ness, and the lonesome hollow
that exudes the void that makes the armchair an empty
blob of nothing but solid spaces morphed into air, that


factoid needs to be taken to task, argued for and against


for to not do so would be to rest content in philosophizing
and that has been done, done, done.



This thought out assemblage, of words, of words, of
the structure that is hinted by the words, and the flow


that is bought with pain, bought with pain, and it sows
seeds of discord, a hundred crows screaming out


to make a point, a noisy point that somehow morning is
not all about the flow, the rhythm; so listen to the cacop-


-hones driving their noisy point home without words; no
words needed when attention is distraught, shattered.

3 word-crowds

the conversation has its rules, it has
the semblance of rules, the distance
of semblance that looks to wait, wait
for what you might want to know, to
know the roundness of verb and the
etched jarred-ness of adjective, this
knowledge is spread around in tiny
droplets of hard truths, formations
to live by, to strait-jacket the oozes
and to caress the noun, ah yes the
noun, how could we forget the noun?

After the mauling, an erstwhile salutary gasp
Would that the severance of hatched heads suffice?

The sufficiency is brought forth in a vestibule that
affronts the ghost of nine lives lived out in traffic.

Nine protracted possibilities that can be counted on
fingertips, all but one remaining, screaming out alone.

When the lone shriek-er is bypassed in seniority as
others have a historic precedent and one doesn’t.

History begets history not linearly but in a mathematical
formula which if articulated can be quite satisfying.

Retooling the blandishments, some cheap, some creepy
Many lying in wait, some left in the sun collecting noon-dust
Remembering the crispness that followed your mumbles
And fashioning a fortress of unknowns out of it, each un
Known lisping a tiny bit of ground, grit, and solemn smile
That could be mistaken for grace but for the cynical stance.

Five alpha experiments

Filaments of air – hints of vapid remembrance, a return to form

Dire shackles of somnambulence – their lazy cast an excuse for the call to inaction

Mites of tenureless hyperbole – globules, albeit tiny, of a hyperspace fitted for a resigned experiment in spacetime.

Last known refuge, it can be tempted to know in the same measure
In the same measure as the regal tide is confined to its torpor
In the same measure as the torpor is regaled off into numbness
Numbness that is no measure of hurt
Hurt that is furthest from truth
Truth that is grain
Truth that stains.

memories of flesh, signposts, bird tweets, chug you along
on the path where dream meets the tarry road where

the untold is made rhythmically real through allusion of
flesh again of an aesthetic bound by the law of freedom

seek gently glance lightly lest you aim to see more than
what memory warrants for that is possible more than

possible it is the norm to over extend it is the template
in fact of error the shore will nevertheless guide you through.

Bird tweets as signposts, the low probability event
as dawn, future melts rightly into an icebox.
Can’t say anymore if the blighted will fly low, if the
road’s bumpiness is any indication of its lowliness.

Let’s just say tomorrow is another day for the sake of it and be done with.

Let’s just remind our inner decibel making machinery that to pray is to prey.

And you will not gain much
Not extend by much either.
If you tick tock this timepiece any more, it will break into so many pieces you will find it hard to count, although it won’t be because of lack of time.

This much it can be said, if it can be said at all, that
Manufactured dreams can be allowed to park in this
Corner or that, yet you will not have access to their

Technological innards until you have mastered the
Algorithm that enumerates the signals that cross
The wire that speak or try to sound the truth byte.

Sufficiency in algorithmic interpretation can give
You a head start, the kind which tears the machine
Apart in an instant, only to build it back in another.

Sufficiency in digital metaphor can give you some
Sort of leeway that will think it can cross the
divide forgetting that metaphor is always analog.

Five word formations

The revolutions are now in tandem
with hoary silences that greet

the tired onlooker for whom history is
always wiser than self, not withstanding

the ‘you knows’ and the obvious twists
in the plot-line.

The blood which inks the plot-line &
the firmaments which guard the signposts
suggest a lingering absence which hints
of the shell – happenings at a distance.

The grasshopper bleeds insanity on the carpet, and as it
stays the call of its execution, the pause asserts and there an abundance of nothing
for that slice of time that is enough for stay of madness.

That surfeit of grasshopperness is always on call ready
to bleed as insanely on the carpet as on the floor just cleaned in anticipation of guests.

It will not die, and it will not be wished away, this grasshopper.

the pretending of the tide, the undulation of it and then


the reaching out of the pretending of
the turning back, the tide

is ready, was ready to return now
as it
was before.

You visit, and the death-hold loosens

You visit, and the death-hold loosens; you
brush past, and somewhere an old lark croaks

as if time was a luxury necessitated by the
passage of undulations and gradations of

sea-moments. It is not thus forever, or is it?
But that overshoots the issue, the issue being

the lark, its age and its croaking, earlier than
what was pre-ordained by the nuggets of sea-time.

the intensity of the way

the intensity of the way the groping breathless meandering
nothing means less than it used to nothing means what it

could could it become the norm the pushing the giving this
day this terrible day in the sweat in the writhe in the noon

of happening again again and what about shame and the

norm of holding back the eye from the again again this noon
evening this night day the grope the slip this again again will

you now care to whisper will you have more faith in the giving
way release what little you have to give give again again thus?

In blank spaces you create

In blank spaces you create openings for blank spaces
Pools of empty blobs

There is room for yet some more
Add one more empty blob make that two

There is enough for all yet one can’t have enough
Make room make room there is room still

The gardener you would think he is tired
The task at hand is not one of labor but of love.

An imperfect rush

An imperfect rush of word-like accidents trickle down this road
You care to caress this road or the word-like accidents or their imperfection?

How goes this night then which prepares the train of words, how urgent is
the flow, and does it matter to the sea if the droplet is on its way?

The sea is in need of some semblance
of imperfection
that breaks the flow of word-like accidents and hints at the possibility of a new droplet forming and making its way to the sea.

Remnants of dream

Remnants of dream can be embarrassing come morn, the overriding aesthetic is longed for that would round off that tinge of shame that qualifies droplets of otherwise unqualified joy. The spillover into reality, the concrete magic, the emanation of vapor: that too is anticipated, but with that same tinge. The dance of light you hope will dot off the eyes soon, but no hurry no hurry, this is an old ritual. The play of shadows is but a play, the pain fails to soothe only if you fail to
chime along with the plotline.

The plotline gets thicker, or does it? The remnants jostle for position as the solemn tryst which gave the dream its substance rests in cool shade. There is more to it than the story line which is but a thread of a lifeline thrown to keep you busy while night manages shadow the way it knows best.

enslavement or the state of

enslavement or the state of as one begs but not obviously
begging that would be sad this is sadder
enslavement is the state of you not being able to choose
when it is ripe to be chosen one falls looks
the other way keeps looking how long the seasons will change as they always do only
your participation will be less looked forward to
choose with your vitals soaring so that you get a pass to participate.