What the language poet says

The language poet says we write and speak from the area of ignorance. We write from unknown and ineffable, a darkness that rises from our sleep, a common sleep all through the ages of ignorance, our misunderstandings.

All things are like, sublime and trivial. Towards evenings , we are wet in eyes.



The black granite form decked in flowers smiles through the camphor flames, stone’s smile meant for flesh’s eyes eagerly waiting for a miracle or two.

Do not focus light on lights and miss a miracle of sleeping God in sanctum with the smile intact on His sleeping ,says a woman counting acts of faith.

Woman is flesh , a mouth in miracle. Granite sleeps in flowers of camphor.The flame is lit in our common chests ,a fragrance of love, a miracle of faith.

Late poems

There it is my own mountain with a mouth open at its top , a hole in a childhood village where monks lived for peace.These late poems breath life to the old choked with bare trees.

A good old poet sets about re-ordering pines, avoiding the clutter of the top clouds,
to be free of unseasonal rain with resultant mud to sky. Rain drowns a pine’s loneliness at the top, late poems are about.

Krishna’s mountain frees us from pebble rain of angry gods when we are down in its under,what our late poems are about.


We floated all our red and blue balloons ,colored kites that chirruped like sky birds ,scraping the blue off our childhood skies. We daubed yellow paint on dancing bodies pretending to be tigers in their jungle race.

We lit huge wood fires at the road’s center to burn demon kidnappers of God’s wives and later saw them in the evening laughing in pain from the blue sky of their ten heads.

We burnt monsters only to bring new ones that we would need to burn the next year. Our sounds have all the complex patterns nuanced like the goat skins of our dreams that are goats that would die in stomachs for the larger stomachs of fierce goddesses and for our larger ears for their aural complexity .

Our meaning comes from our mobs of time.


From  the midnight onward  would be  a whistle,  an absence of  insects for rain,  a Himalayan stick tapping an earth that yielded a bizarre sound. We therefore tried all sorts of poetry that made sense but sense made no poetry. We broke sense from a felt cap or a fez cap loosely falling like hair. We then mixed it in light stolen from rain moths hitting the glass.The glass  would embrace them in death.There were no pots with water leaking behind in thin streams.No rivers and no boats.Insects generally died  anonymous deaths on the glass.

The whistle fell on the ears.The ears were sleeping near the eyes. The eyes wept for company. We sacrificed life forms for beauty. Goats that stretched luxuriously  dead on strings.Chickens that waited to die outside the “meal ready” sign board.They all loved their deaths.We loved their life.The whistle chased the stick.The stick beat the earth for stories.The stories that always began with deaths and ended in births that would cleverly dodge the basic issues of marriage and embracing Buddhism . Buddhism of turning stone. Stone that had pleats of cloth on its torso , a petrified smile for the city, a city that forgot to sleep .


The morning’s fog has coal smelling memories of several coking fires burning in a goddess city with their low smokes rising like clouds in hills.A little steam emerges from speaking mouths and tongues loll over sleazy expletives for the day.

The train’s honk has no special coal memories except of ancestor coal trains, their mustaches smelling buttermilk and their eyes gone smoky with gray memories ,coal rising from the bottom of an earth that dug deep into greed and misery.

Smoke is the earth burning its ancient memories.