We had descended the whitest of hills and landed in endless green plains, a verdant land of milk and kinnow. Kinnow was discovery’s girl fruit through the mists of car window , fresh as a college girl in giggles.
It is poor man’s orange and flesh, a girl’s smile in our car window,after descent from apple country.
The poet is sad because the world is sad, this business of being. Acknowledging it is sad. By the lakeside of a fish. Into the rarefied air of a summer morning.The woman down there hurls abuses at sadness, calls it a son-of-a-bitch. He didn’t do anything .Just stood on a stool mending the fuse wire.He stood there ,never came down while we remained in the dark. We did whatever we could with our static electricity. We tried to light our bulbs on our bodies. Our cars gave a jolt when you touched them. You may kiss them lovingly but do not touch their smooth surfaces. Electricity made you sad .
The universe is sad, a poem of sadness that gets rejected by indie publishers. Indie publishers pursue dead mules , live camels. The camels laugh at you from the height of their funny necks. When the camels married mules, the camels danced while the mules sang. The camels praised the mule-song.The mules praised the camel-dance. They were sad together.
The poet had been trembling even in infancy. The only rest is to acknowledge and absorb the sadness of being.
The cricket had fallen silent for two days near the park trees. I now hear it back again, this time like the creaking of a tree wood in the wind. On the passing tree I see a big black ant making its appearance for the first time.In the next rounds of walk I look for it. Actually look for it ,till it became an obsession with my eyes, heavy with uveitis, an inflammation of the middle eye. The ant looked like having the powers to control my pain center.
Back home I keep looking for music to soothe my eye heavy with uveitis. A song about a bird in the sky may soothe pain. Then everything looked whirring as I got up from the computer. Like a bird swirling in the sky. I need words to keep me steady in the sky. From floating away. From fear of not seeing. Towards beauty and music.
When you take notes you are not you but would-be gray non-conformist guy wearing pantaloons into early seventies,the ones you reach way before your leg.
You collect your notes in a shirt pocket to discard them when you reach home. Or wear them like polka dots on your shirt to hide the existence of tiny holes under.
As you take notes be adequately surreal. You cannot make sense of life otherwise.
Sleep’s word chain is the manifestation of a stored change ,a transmutation ,a self motion, a radio talking to night, a scrap of song that starts in its sleep ,a rapid moment in sleep’s eye- face.
In the stillness of night the objects cry out, dance mature nature to life singing human songs mostly of flesh . A flesh sets the word chain to music ,a milky way of endless light sounds.
Like a breeze blowing in tree clusters flesh is object in a cluster of sounds ,a song without its literature, a sound ,of a subject that is at once the object ,a song that sings itself to object-hood.
In the train it was still night and sleep. At four, the train softly flowed in the night holding out a promise of home by eight. That was when communications reached their lowest point.
The mobile phone suddenly jumped from my pocket into the sink-hole and slid into the dark depths of a running night. Apparently it was time to part company with my phone. Looks like I have to build a new relationship.
Internet is out there waiting in its mud tracks,clumps of trees as beginnings of neutral skies. Night’s stars may have gone home for the day with men warming themselves by cave fires and women in the sickle of perked up bodies.Women are interim sounds on parched tongues.
Face books are not books but men in themselves as they practice their absurd facial movements in shadows of rising elbows, fingers touching roof , bodies a wiggling mass of humanity.