All-time is an all-space you can see,
Like a stretch of Rocky Mountains.
Alltime is your spaces strung together
As if in a single white vertical wall.
Alltime is moments strung together
You are trapped in like the ladybugs
Trapped in a paperweight’s amber
Sitting on top of paper against wind.
We are individual ladybugs trapped
In a separate amber of the moment.
(Notes on Kurt Vonegut’s Slaughterhouse 5)
To the question if she was going,
She would say, I am not going.
I am not going away any where.
Why bang the poor white wall?
I am not going away, not going.
I have arrived at the white wall.
White wall ,it is whole of wind
The whole of some wind , wall
With a Khyber pass in its wind
So narrow that wind whooshes
As in a teeth gap of intellectual
With funny teeth’s closing gap
From intellect’s embarrassment
In pulmonological dysfunction.
Eerie words whoosh through gap.
Stop ,you bustling crowd, in a road,
Wheresover you are and whenever.
Stop in your tracks and everyone’s.
Freeze as you are, unstuck in time
Like white Himalayan snow caught
In a motionless vortex of the pines
As a sun that would unfreeze them
At next dawn, himself froze at dusk
A ball of snow that the white widow
Flung at man to freeze honeymoon.
Stop, bustling crowds in the streets
So you won’t vanish at their corners.
That man from Stamboul said
You took my wealth, my health.
He harangued thus to old tool
In a privacy of unzipped pants
In clackety clackety of old train
As his bushes went one by one.
But no one heard him say that,
Nor wannabe war book writer
Nor the fool in unzipped pants.
It is just old tool unable to pee
Under a pressure of a prostate
That is empty in its old wealth .
(Coming upon a hilarious Limerick in Kurt Vunnegut’s engaging novel Slaughterhouse-five )
We are making our city’s pillars
For Metro’s future trains to pass.
And our pillars shall have trains
On them in the undefined future.
In interregnum , our young men
Upon the dad’s educated money
Shall drink to a success full liquor
In drunk mid nights to bang head
Against the pillars in the making
To come out as their meat of cars .
In the meantime ,our sundry cars
Full of a success liquor shall bash
Against the pillars like in a sport
Of the farm animals racing south
For a pleasure of head’s violence
As all heads are headed to bang.
In interregnum ,we may number
Our pillars in a white paint, as 141
Or 189 etc and on for an address
Of city’ s beggars for a night stay .
In interregnum, before trains start
We make hash job of pillar design
For pillars to make meat of men
In crash sound like Jehova’s bolt .
Our driver pointed at yellow bus
Wondering what a planet meant.
It was just school bus for tiny tots.
We continue to live in our planet.
Yellow bus goes by a self motion
Steered by its fatalistic bus driver,
Not a google run bus on internet
Moving on to planet in the creek.
Tiny school children are in the bus,
Going to rote multiplication tables
And A for Apples and P for planet
And voices will rise like bee hum.
The driver who pointed a bus was
Our own car’s driver philosopher.
Yellow school bus taking children
To learn the multiplication tables
Was heading towards planet creek.
At the end was no sea of learning.
All we were doing is philosophize
For laugh over the times’ quiddity,
A driver fatalistic about school bus
In one-up take on a school system.
It is all our extended silence.
Her death is blooming at 36,
In a bold chest’s bird silence.
Silence extends beyond poet
We have not heard of earlier.
The poem blooms her silence
And your night and her days.
It is all in an extended silence
Which you have not heard of.
We are in an extended silence.
We are both drowned in quiet.
We bloom silent lotus in mud.
(Remembering a short-lived poet of silence Flora Alejandra Pizarnik (1936–1972) )
We would see the priest dance
A camphor’s flame around God
Lighting up God’s smiling face
And the bell would ring hollow
And sound would superimpose
Light on our God’s smiling face
And a fragrance of God’s smile
Would rise on camphor’s death.
Our God would smile in hollow
From metallic variation of bell
And the dying flame of oil lamp
In falling fever of bell’s tongue.
God smile is our stone of death,
A flame dying to a bell’s sound
A tongue rising to ring hollow
From fevered emptiness of life.
The son is still making in body
In a body’s stomach growling.
We have to find sense for him.
While we put a finishing touch
Stomachs keep their thunder
And empty light in their skies.
Son has to crawl up to the sky
And say his mama and names
Holding his wall’s white alone.
But all the while,a night stares
Empty light stares unfinished,
At piece of boom from night.
Into this labyrinth, let us recall
Not the Minotaur at the center
But the blind poet’s death day,
Also my birth day dating back
To hard boiled toffees we had
Distributed when kids in class.
We can’t find when blind poet
Was born in imagined library
That is also a Minos labyrinth,
As fourteen and more youths
Were sacrificed to Minotaur
Before blindness set in library.
A reader had recent birthday
And may have many for sure
If you rise from a blindness
And not caught by Minotaur
To live memory of birthdays,
When kids made fun sounds
On birthday toffees you gave
As tongues touched the roofs
Of mouths knowing no mazes.