past as present

Let the past thrust itself on to the fore, dying
Fathers resurrect themselves as their children
Live out the past as present.

Let the myth dissemble into a tale with characters
Intelligently prancing about in plot circles wishing there
Was an escape hatch somewhere.

Let the now reek of the act, the stage immerse
Itself in the surge of applause, the actor remember
That only his will will save.


Just as there is a federation of power bases loosely coupled there is
too a loose affiliation of underlying water springs that tend to the lowest
positions and aspire only to come together and mingle; perhaps one day
they will gush upstream.


What goes missing when nuance gets to the slaughterhouse?
Does the pound of flesh get to measure itself (on which scale)?
And if what goes missing is missed, how to the shush the scream?
The scream is bread; it is butter; shush it now and starve the verve.

the golden path

If you try and bisect the path seeking moderation, the golden mean,
                                this goes askew; the points do not just lie on a
straight line – no, not even the best fit; they do not simply lie on a plane
of reasonable doubt and discussion 
                                and length and breadth – that would invoke yet another
dimension. If approximate you must, give credence to the sense which
enumerates as a child does, delights as does a child, and when play is over
                                gives up to find something else to do like sleep perhaps.

Justice and Joy

Man’s history is waiting in patience for the triumph of the insulted man – Rabindranath Tagore
The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice – Martin Luther King

Arc bends towards, bends away from, and then
towards: there is – should be – a trend as it tends
to and fro, as it reaches your innards and pulls
your poor and lustful soul out, lets it breathe in one
more gaspful of joy – incipient, unmindful – as it tends
one more time. This is play? This is play. Just as it
does, it does and is.

Nuance is to get it right, just so, in the
Small small. In the stream of wakeful

Error, the nit picking of the shore, the
Tiny nudge, the eastward drift. In the

House of joy there is just the just so
and just not-so. All else is un-just.

Justice is either embedded in the act of joy
Or it is the shadow lining the breach that

Decides what must be overcome in order
For the two to be one. At times, the emphasis

Is explicit, needs to be thus, and at times, needs
To be less extroverted, a silent friend, a voice

That grazes the small small, a meekness that
Aims not to overcome but comes over often.


The savior

There is a ton of void void ness in wanting in
Waiting for the savior. Void voidness too in

Haste. Caricature of a blessed ego waits in
Dark ness, confounding shadow and night.

The rooted ness of roots will hold steady as
Wind makes short work of top soil, the wretched

Silliness, crafty loftedness of top soil imagining
Vapid release. Good goshed gosh, that is not

About to happen, not then, not now, not then.