she, he

he was creating a bond built entirely of love and-



selfishness. he prided himself on how little he asked.



he was like her mother, driving all away. unstolen hours lie wasted.


he responded only to her response to her self. only the conflicted hours



of lovemaking were that proof. her enchantment was his inexperience. her love was someone else's



at last. at least, count your minutes, no matter how small the difference.- 2 hrs 3 days a week



though she never contacted between. no unexpected bouquet of. his thumbs itched



to touch thru his phone. agreed to quickly to meet again- next tue though.



trysting in his stepdad's room with the orange erect cat. he skipped school didn't do homework just to



think think about her.- there might be an extra unexpected hour. do your nails. its her loyalty to her children



husband that makes her more woman gives him the strong endearing obligatoriness.


no calls but he saw her happy in the downtown shop happy that way it could


only be her husband. crying alone in the car and with friends afterward. those hills behind the college



where they first kissed alone remain the same. how she survived the fall from the hills was


no minor miracle said the doctor churlish. parents come to see him in separate shifts



couldn't stand each other and knew what they'd done to him. the therapist only asked why he'd


manipulated sex to keep the relationship & win only that that rueful
baleful attention. next is


that dedicated but unstruggling triathlete that uncarved block of muscle

poem: northern expedition

though a brave warrior a chief mandarin a librarian of the imperial archive



he fled the war, he fled the peace he let the coat of red silk



sent by his beloved from home go to others.


he left the front and took to a wandering moved by strange and
stranger passion &,

henceforth



all trace of him was lost, except


(that was 1627)



those calligraphies of poems curling with the autumnal leaves (his scars made gold by the early solstice).




emptied of heart



the flowers are kept piled high in the dead monks' cells.





at night the river remains a single silvered o'er braid of pure percussion-




it is still still 1627

the true test of love

is who all would you not-

commit- suicide- for- ?


& 2. wonder if you can live just, or preferably,



linked or rooted to/for objects



(could you stay on earth for just your camera -? alone or even firstly,
mostly ?-)



the eye a seed planted deep

if she had been born even a minute later

(there might not have been that this-moment)


the stars would have aligned differently, the cosmos inalterably twinned



& the precise pale of that mist haranguing that lone broomsman


on that hanging hanging pale blue blue bridge



on that one early early morning in turn of the century petersburgh

( she wasn't one who usually got up so early, was it her twin who'd risen?-)


& that precise locking of iris & -
image



that broom & her gripped cognition



born a minute later, it would have been a different altar'd cosmos


a minute minuet of pure- seeing


.an image that would have slipped off the edge of the bridge


an unwritten poem that has squandered it's line

doubt-

its self-pacifying being not solution or faith, but just assurance, validation, a safety, a security, a non condescending compassion, a right to doubt

cheap ethics

only buy books, music, philosophy, film by indie publishers, only teach/attend community colleges, only eat spoiling vegetables & fruits, don't buy anything see anything where over 1001/-rs has been spent for self promotion (friends labor and goodwill presumably are free, no?/), only youtube videos which are original, & less than 1001 views, or shall we be generous & say 10001?, only bloggers with less than 11 followers?, only unpublished (but maybe not unpublishable) dissertations, only poets, philosophers & geometers you are friends with & had become friends with for non philosophical or mathematical or poetical reasons, though its ok if you met the poet for philosophical reasons, only years where the inflation is less than * & wages are more than, & unemployment is exactly _, & where south asians or south east asians & middle asians have won at least one nobel,and... above all don't say or even think anything twice

venerate

there are many times when it is right, apt to mourn, memorate etc, but one must also be able to develop in good conscience (the happy guilt?), right of not mourning someone's death, i e of a not- mourning- without- guilt, or responsibility, / perhaps even a defiance of the demand of death to assignate mourning-

on apologies

it isn't an apology if you say, i'm sorry, but...- this is hard! you have to accept 100% responsibility, a number thats not true of almost any interaction. which proves that apology isn't about the rationale of the encounter, but goes into the realm of the unaccountable uncountable moral, one of the harder & obscurer parts of being human, a friend, lover etc!-there lies your ego spattered on the tip of your tongue, growing up is owning up is hard-

where to begin commentary

at the very end, as much beyond the pale as one's strength can bear- this might be the motto, no one is guilty in some ultimate sense, not stalin or the serial killer, we must find their reason & human innocence beyond what even their self consciousness & self justification & pre-mediate desire (avidhyas) allow-for no human is outside of humanity & we are all somehow ( to the last threshold of our karuna) implicated-

why its impossible

so, adolescents are the largest consumers of a show like friends or sex in the city etc, which is played by 35+ year olds playing 25 year olds ( or equivalent displacements) written or directed by say people in their 40s, 50s- how can one read this consumption, what exactly are the consumers getting, what is that twilight that is twixt the imagined talk of 20+ year olds & their clothing & their body & facial language & their behaviors & their humor. all this is more complex than adults simply intellectualizing a form like animation, lending it a more crafted erudite aesthetic -it is still made in their image. but in one who's mind is forming, it is the blur in its blurring that shapes erratic sense & action & thrall- what they get is impossible to define or reflect on, the author(s) here being simply shizified, avatarized into a multiplicity of hands & heads & meaning & gesture

loss loss loss

its been a long long time since i re

cognized


a redwood's soar and flight


would it had changed too.


pitiless beauty

arraigned against the mortal,


wrinkling heart

jambavan's theory-memory of creation

inner earth’s churning / molt

the tethys is the warm ocean’d uterus, every beach was hot
then, the arabian plate’s shift to lift up the zagros, a foreskin of forests swirl the world
warm water’ salty parturitions, the mediterranean, but the eastern ocean stays cold cold

wide gashes form the rift to malawi, rain shadows force the rift valley, making days parched & un-misty/

seasons are born and make fig trees, the hot rains everyday’s afternoon are of the past (none to remember or regret or miss)

lava drenchings. single storeyed trees, each separate & wonderful. not fixing anymore their green forearms on kin. On these tiny ancient horses ran, & myriad rhino & giraffe-(what could be more wondrous floating- as- in- a- dream a giraffe and antelope hoof holdingly contentedly climbing the stairways to the upper forests as the old friends they were )

but always so much death, so many unworkable borted mutants, so many ancestors gone unliving so that some survive, deft,
cunning. with thick enamel on their molar cracking rind- (& did they see their orangutan cousins' crumpled red gorgeousness sail as ocean's scum all the away to indonesia-?)

all the bones of the ancestors of us so many billion not enough to fill a shoe

somewhere exactly sometime, an ape jumped off the tree and foraged thistle. and
mutatis mundis suddenly
came away all human’ed up-