Yellow leaves fall to no spring breeze .A man with a skullcap and his wife have just left the park. The juxtaposition has come out unintended.
The morning we thought of the Kinnow fruit we had come upon after descending the snow hills. The fruit is a country cousin of the orange of the hotter central plains. Grown largely in the plains of Western Punjab. Cute and innocent like a girl’s fresh smile. But sweet and dignified.
Kinnow was discovery’s girl fruit
Through the mists of car window
As fresh as college girl in giggles.
It is poor man’s orange and flesh,
A girl’s smile in our car’s window,
After descent from apple country.
In the morning walk we thought of ourselves as mere matter, matter trying to coalesce with other matter in a compulsive fashion -man matter merging with woman matter, destructible matter with destructible matter. The monk saw some bones and some flesh , an unusual matter that saw other matter in a decomposed fashion ahead of its time.
All the time we are making matter in this factory of the old matter merging to form new matter which will do the same thing. This matter wants to control other matter and some times hastens the process of the matter decomposing ahead of time like the monk, in a compulsive urge to decompose matter. The matter is the same, monk or murderer.
The urchin who broke the dog’s leg with a stone was just breaking down matter to its essentials.
It is there all the time quietly flowing making a strange liminal hum inside. You wake up to your abrupt dreams. You hear a midnight ocean of sound before morning and the cars begin.
When an unnamed dog stops to yelp, the machine whir of computer is soft and the cricket goes home to sleep you wish the suspended animation stays, you don’t have to flee down a mount with cryptic messages about stream.
Delicious in suspense the afternoon shades are a mauve, a leading up to unknowable blue or dull gray of sky ,a lot of odd sounds, human and bird. What next is in blood, a time of body.
I have to make up the story of a next ,a grandmother story on deep nights when everything is so naturally made upon dozing kid ears, willing to grant amnesty to disbelief, like opium poet.
Next is already made in the empty sky ,in the bloody vermilion of Shiva’s wife spread to dry to smooth her husband’s life who determines all the others’ deaths. I have to make up this grandma story who makes up all the details like what the old God does to each of our moments making up a next.
I had crossed my childhood long ago, but still a bit childhood experiences haunt me and sometimes they become severe.
(I dream of becoming big and brown.)
These experiences reach out of control within my mind. It makes me disappointed and self confidence is ruled out.
(ruled out by others big and brown)
At this moment I cannot tolerate to go back to my former world as new experiences touch my heart making me free.
(free from comparison with others big and brown)
I can only sense fear if they keep on continuing .With great difficulty I get out of it
sooner I started to make independent myself. Now let me wait and gain extra new experience to free myself from unnecessary danger.
(I did not say this but others did, who were big and brown)
Newspaper (Parent’s thesis)
It was always the body that thought
It was different from mind and soul.
Body is what thinks on a toilet seat
Newspaper on lap, soul on wall peg.
Let world worry inside newspaper.
I sit here on fringe and news rages.
Body is what I think, fat and grown.
News-waves toss corpses of others.
I looked for his floating thing in the western sky, on a night when the man seemed gone as somebody taking own life.
Let him stay hidden from us but his library shall stay floating. Forget the librarian’s absence who is supposed to be deep in a loo break. The library floats on his quiet.
(Ben Price, who you know as Dr. Sineokov, ended his life early on the morning of October 16th. Ben found great joy and comfort compiling this blog, and his family and loved ones like to think that he is now in a floating library of his own.)
Those little fingers dads had held on tight for years before green bench, are beyond the green sea practicing greenbacks ,stirring greenest envy in aggregates yet not green-backed.
Tiny fingers, now ringed and stubby, hardly seem to question dads’ right to talk aggregates on green bench. They now have a right to the big picture. In any case the fingers, now stubby and ringed, have no green views in the matter.