Morning after night was of intimations.
They came to remind us of flesh’s surprises . They come to us in our pees standing in bathroom. Pees come with interruptions. Backs refuse to cringe .
Dorothy’s jokes are sardonic reminders of mortality. Fucking busy or busy fucking. The latter you cannot be, in a tattered coat . You are former on the smart phone. Try to stitch back a few tatters. Generally pretend to be fucking busy. But try to stay erect on the stick so the birds do not crap on you.
In the evening I sit here on the road divider ,on the other side of the vegetables. There are snakes of vegetables . Some are broken in their necks, so they can fit into our plastic bags. Some beetroots are waiting to bleed.
I sit on the road divider waiting for wife’s bags to fill. Three children come from behind and peep into my typing on the phone. The little girl giggles and says “uncle”, as if she caught me doing something really embarrassing.
I fold up the phone as if I am actually embarrassed. The little boy climbs the tree. The little girl holds him from slipping.
The snakes of gourds are ready. And the lady’s fingers . They are in the bag .A broken snake peeps out of the plastic bag.
The ten old men of the middle benches are notably missing, their shouts not heard over the park. They may have come and gone.
Last night’s poem went on about bare thoughts, in flesh and blood of poets on a roll. And who were on a roll, except they who had come as chance events. And my poets are notoriously bucket occupied. Their buckets are full.
After buckets ships arrived to be broken.At the ship breaking yard the ship loses its shipness. It is so much steel , so much wood and so much glass fiber. The ship has kicked the bucket, so to speak. Home or ship,you have the bucket list. And the gray shades of elegiac Gray.
A Saturday riverbed market where buckets are sold in kilos. Where thieves sell a night’s dark deeds.
The riverbed lights fires for those who have fired their buckets. Their bones turn heaps of charcoal. When the rains bring the flood they join the high seas.
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 the Regulation 22 which makes a chaos of all the prior regulations .A bum in a state of pain. A regulation that is part of generic paininthebutness.
Night was when I came upon city’s traffic . The whole of traffic thought the other was traffic. Nobody knows where the farts originated,where they turned aggregates. Everybody cursed others in aggregate. Traffic is aggregate you can curse under your breath. Traffic curses you from its breath. All curses are in the aggregate but they stink like traffic farts.
Traffic takes your breath away. Traffic is dead sea where everything floats and nothing sinks. Traffic is a sea of steel and paint, a dragon with a butt end of smoke. Traffic does not snort dragon fires from the front but farts dark smoke into your face.
In the street there is an improvised tent with people sitting on hot colored plastic chairs.The tent burst with clarinet music played by a wedding band party. As though marriages are just some clarinet music and some plastic chairs with people in them. .
The bridegroom ,in a thick suit, comes out briefly wearing a red vermilion on his forehead and a blotch of sweat under his arm.
Marriages are hot ,sweaty and blood-red.
Marriages are tents full of clarinet music.
Marriages are incomprehensible Sanskrit chants.
Marriages are silk sarees rustling as though the spring wind is already here.
In today’s morning walk there was this woman who smiled all to herself.
(All to herself? Then why did she eye-contact me after the smile?)
Cut the thought .Come to the chickens,now.
(from the chick to the chickens,ha ha,says the sardonic self)
The chickens are waiting for release from the coops of the parked van
(Not to freedom .)
But to be loaded into the shop’s coops where their legs will be tied .
(Another wait. Now for their release from all the earthly bonds)
The chicken- thought jumps,in their tied legs situation,to the chicken picture in front of a hotel where a smiling chicken proclaims in a blurb :I am your lunch today.
(Apparently chickens enjoy being eaten.)
Note : All guilty thoughts occur in parenthesis.