God’s procession

In the evening there was some exquisite music that flowed smoothly on a silk-soft winter breeze with a burning torch ahead, duly abetted by oil.

As God went out with his wives on the palanquin, a bamboo stick went musical in its circular holes and a goatskin went into fever long after its death.

Pig-tailed men carried their God on shoulders. The torch burnt the night till it smelled like flowers.

Dog’s bark

The dog’s bark came late in the night along with a motor’s whir and the hum of my computer into a night’s old age. The trees crackled in the fallen leaves on the floor with dog foot, a tail wagging in the wind, afraid of night’s loneliness.

Its flies were yet to wake in smallness.The two- wheelers went about their business spurred on by a station going for train.

The bark will come back later in the day when the sun will go about its business and men will drink morning coffee to read newspapers about deaths and politics ,rice and bullion ,while emptying their pockets of the night’s air , of a dog’s lonely bark.

The bark will then chase shadows of cars.


Life goes on as frogs croak in rain puddles and little brown birds continue to make mothering noises over the balcony A.C. outlet. My register is filled with the smallest of details.

In the evening the car stops at the intersection with some hands inserted in our eye-holes. The car has gaping holes inside, behind the glass.The music fills the register; our ears are full of it. The register fills, from time to time, with details.

The buffaloes rise against buildings in the grass their emotions in control, but their bowels open. Their milk overflows, grass in  its abundant supply. Their milk is white, like the whites of our eyes. The register is full from time to time with details.

We heard about a boy who stared in the hospital trying not to cry, when they were shaving his head. It is the uncertainty of what lies inside his skull .That is what makes him cry, not just an egg-head. An egg-head is a joke, a laughing matter in mirror. But we are all egg-heads and we are in this together.

Our register gets filled with details from time to time.

The mobile phone talks

The mobile is now on the moving taxi seat. Speak into it, you eyes. Its Latin ring is seen in the mauve of the taxi seat, much agitated, of much pants comfort, less heart- warmth of yesterday, in more cold of today’s words.

It is in the hot words of wax into a cold syntax of the mobile talk between shoulder and head as the former comes close to sneezing head. Its words are filthy, steeped in religious tunes in the kitschy filmy tradition of the back alley. Its tunes rhyme with the body’s foot tapping.

The head is now leaning tower on motorcycle. Such heads, leaning on shoulders, warm cops in their pockets, their hearts, burning stoves.

Its talk now walks on its feet on road like the  unflying bird of the wingless species, its feet tied together in the coop, in a joy ride to market. It will speak in hush from someone’s stomach.


The black granite decked in fragrant flowers smiles through the camphor flames, stone’s smile meant for flesh’s eyes eagerly awaiting  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 the 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.

After Rilke

After Rilke, you please  keep looking under the stars and beyond or under  old man’s bed. Eyelashes have hid women. Gently raise them to stars of a night by a pale moon.

Some are jasmines to bud on the blouse back’s night, with its stars flowering yet. Old jasmines are a history of washer-man’s laundry. Smell a washed out pocket.

Chase after old man Rilke .Keep looking a star beyond or under the old man’s bed.

He stands upright in his pants

Bukowski’s lady had him off the bottle for a change (weaned from the bottle,so to speak) .He now tries sundaes of different flavors at Baskins-Robbins.

Now he does not  have to listen to Shostakovitch and Mozart through  a haze of  smeared smoke .His friends say he  looks better,  feels cool like the ice cream people.

Above all he  stands absolutely upright in his pants.

“…and later that night

there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other’s

(“The Ice Cream People” -A poem by Charles Buckowski )