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 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 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
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 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 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.
ravishment, go sit in the corner and pretend
it is not time yet to bring on the
tilted rays of daylight
somber tunes that lilt the voice of noon
perhaps-ness of the jaded evening tree
when it is time, ravishment you may
come out and play.
How goes the desire through the thrush of things now when the tide is ready to succumb
to the unruly, the unkempt, the unwished for unholyness? Will the flame be tempered by
the iron laws of matter or will it be madness? How goes this ascetic dance, this call of
conscience fired up by seeds of the unknown reveling in a confidence that does not become
the calm sea but more so the torrent which the sea beckons? Does the sea indeed beckon
this torrent or is a mere fleck of disconnection, disorientation that misguides as it continues?
The shores of error will dictate a norm, a way of
particularizing, and a train of hope nevertheless
The broken is on the mend in so many ways that
when joy stumbles on its home, it seems amused
The repair work takes little time takes a long time
takes however long it damn well chooses to take
Things stand in need of fixing more now than ever
before, and time is not in the habit of standing still.
Pauperization of grit could have been foretold
But it wasn’t
Demonization of wit should have been prescribed
But it wasn’t
Monetization of guilt would have been devised
But it wasn’t
What is left are the remnants of broken testimonies and horrid dreams.