What decides the plain

I.
What decides the plain, the folk
from an abstraction of the jungle

and sorted through filch and facts
and darts of logic? What derides

the gulch, the periphery of the
unsung, but the bard, the poem’s

math done for the sake of the pen.

II.
What gives form the languor of
form, the sweep and swing of it

is the float of a butterfly’s
thrust, its widespan of dare &

snatch of an eyelid shut, a broad
sash of light with slit vertebrae.

The forgotten metaphor

The forgotten metaphor is just
That: forgotten. The elided

Verb goes past the mistaken
Now to an edifice that bakes

An incomplete bread, an idea
Of leavening, groping and brine.

Censorship is never over for those who have experienced it. It is a brand on the imagination that affects the individual who has suffered it, forever.” – Noam Chomsky

Scoundrel times

The antic of the grown up mouse
is ancillary to purpose, to
meetings that sell power and
vocabulary to pools of pus

And vermin, to ghouls of a
dependency that is not
contingent on the human but
on the abstract necessity

Of a cull, of class, of
hyenas shrilling the voice
of an unknown past on to
an unforgiving scoundrel now.

“We live in scoundrel times.” Eqbal Ahmad

To breathe through the poem

To breathe through the poem
The trees and

The hours of a resplendent
Fear that tocks

The gazelle and chimes the
Blueness of sky

To read through my eyes
What transpired

On the page with the ink
Bending spacetime.

A worm tells summer better than the clock,
The slug’s a living calendar of days;
What shall it tell me if a timeless insect
Says the world wears away? – Dylan Thomas, from “Here in This Spring” – Collected Poems

The apple of my revolution

Can you explain the workings
of a rancid apple

To the stingray that glides
Past the bluefish?

Can you write your essay
With words that

Slide and tremble at the
mention of a child?

And will that sink the boat?

“The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall.” – Che Guevara
“A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery.” – Mao Tse Tung