God in the mountains

There on the mountain sits my waiting God as I am trying to muffle fail-sounds and wipe these chalk lines of failed roads.

Pray is the keyword of this dark night as my head rests on the frail pillow. Tomorrow morning I shall cup my right palm to take sacred camphor water to lips .

I shall have that pig-tailed man touch my head to announce my ancestry to His presence while my flowers shout in white fragrance and the flame of my lamp rises in prayer.

Our ghosts

These days ghosts do not boast of bodies tapering down to their bottoms.They do not now laugh in lonely tiled mortuaries in the outskirts of the town, where they cut up bodies.

They do not now live in tamarinds in shrieking street-corners where suicide ghosts once lived with their families.

They sleep quietly below our skull-plates till midnight when they come out in moonlight for a ghost-dance.

Broken Images

This morning we stumbled upon broken images from a waste land , irrevocably lost to their wholes . There April is the cruelest month and a certain Madam Sosostris had a bad cold.

Nevertheless lovely women stoop there to be conquered .When conquered ,they smooth their hair and put a record on gramophone.

We were taken to a dry old river bed where we were boys treading fearfully away from other people’s dreams. They said tread softly as you are treading on broken images from yesterday’s wholes still warm from flesh.

They were pieces of wood coal ,mixed with pale white bone pieces .There were meant to be re-engineered to be wholes they had been before they came to the river bed.

But now there will be waters released by an upstream dam and the waters will take away pieces of our images to the high seas where all engineering is irreversibly lost.

Variations

I have now moved on from my remnants to a night of variations, of subtle textures.The variations are a poem in the making with exquisite textures of a soft language like the inscrutable night, silky and smooth and lined with sleeping trees in a dark sky.

The remnants are a poet in fever that likes to see his own remnants on the ground ticking away in an aliveness of art form some sort of a soul divine, a shred of light, a body moving from itself, an aesthetic.

Paininthebuttness

Before it was a catch soaked in a lawn’s water. My shoes dig prints in it. Another  green bench. An old man sits in a neighbor bench. There is larger than life rabbit to hold the park’s waste. The rabbit always stays amused, with the rubbish spilling. The rabbit has an  amused expression.

After a two minutes’  walking round, I  now recall today’s poem was about adages. About early birds and late worms. How the  deeper ironies elude us. The irony that has not worked or something you only imagined but never existed.

An irony that leaves you open-mouthed about whether you should love your mother or you should not. A catch not before 22. What 22? It is like a stitch in time is better than nine. It took all our school years to realize nine refers to the number of stitches made after time. How could alpha a be pitted a numeric nine?

(Grammar man may approve : one stitch in time will save nine . A is not definitive one  but is a generic pointer)

22 is  Regulation 22 which makes a chaos of all  prior regulations .A bum is  in a state of pain. Regulation is part of  society’s generic  paininthebutness.

Perpetual woman

Between us two and common loss is this tree with potential red flowers. Take care of it ,you perpetual woman.

You and I shall listen to this tree, its bark ravaged by time, like face ,letting big petal drops falling as tears from leaves,drop by drop.

I pour its red flowers in your palm. Take care , you perpetual woman ,as you take care of the boat in Ganga and its gentle ripples on our shore.

August

Come August ,this body turns a torso with the sacred thread from left to right on my chest slung under a bare chest cloth.

My lips lost to the smoked thought, I await a spirit dancing on fire and its assistant wood smoke,a crow to pick up a ball of rice on a glass spiked backyard wall. Body in thought is a rarefied air ,the body’s body ,looking for food.Come August, body is smoke.

I change the thread right to left ,my thoughts on body’s mom ,my thoughts on bodies in air ,my future body on bamboo.

My thread back to my drawer, I await the next August if there will be .August is the possibility of thread , body may yet be a substance.Thread may hang left to right awaiting another smoke on fire.