Abject we are in this old corner the bottom of economy’s dog-pile.Our savings fear no passing wind like w.p.i.weekly non-farm rolls.

We are oldies fluttering papers.We shout in no halls of bourses. Our diaphragms do not vibrate to money-wet cries of brokers.

Term deposits are fixed stares.As they stare, eyes turn marble.Principal grows shrinking skin ,interest a sneeze,an abject nose.


Daily poems

We begin from a beginning, from a chaos of darkness where we had not even once suspected existences, that flimsy matter. In the darkest of nights it would end up roundly and as the east reddens it would begin again.

Several beginnings form in amoeba –like existences and word-shapes of free volition .Their false feet, like lies spoken in the day,wiggle to make our existences daily poems. We write without thinking, do not even write. When we think, our writing stops at our lips.


A crow cawed at dawn suggesting a picture of idolatry, a woman who ascended wall to decorate a living room. The crow cannot be mom to eat rice. Our images cannot eat rice in words. Images cannot eat rice, only words.

We have other images of ourselves ,hollow men, fleshed out of our bones ,poor nightly creatures of fluorescence roaming the empty wastes of minds.

We have other men in rolled shirtsleeves staring from ancient space, not yet knowing my own coming, that meant his own going from all space in time.There was space only for one of us.

All our images are shadows from past that are cast on our space , after real things are gone except in sleep.


If looking for the word in the night , in tiny eruptions of sound on darkness a word or sound makes no difference to light or its absence ,a mere paper. Not even a paper but a thought one ,in deep recesses, when a chest beats under the skin ,in vague fear of revolt.

A ruled paper makes a word perfect ,a sticky note filed in memory’s pages as a cough on darkness ,a soft throat, a splash of water on the earth, its air a powdered color of white on asphalt ,flowers on earth dropped from a sky ,a word fallen from a passing pocket.

If looking for other people’s words on a light screen ,from early fingers , fingers have thoughts on tips. Words flow from a music of fingers when fingers play on the keyboard their sibilant notes on its dark nights. A soft light pours from green domes on a slew of words , in yellow splash.

Dream run

We were merely running our dreams, at once their colors running from an early morning dream.Tread softly we said because you were walking on our dreams.

Tiny flowers fell on the road all night long, around the red car, tracing a flowery oval round.They were someone’s dream run. Tread softly we said but your feet had their own dreams.

We have our own dream runs. Every one has his own.


Hey you the mother of my little one! My hookah needs to sputter in hydra. My mustache needs to be twirled up.

It was all so easy to blow every mind. My acids be alkalized neural network, my mind has neurons fired dorsally. I am bilious acids rising to the mind.

Hey you the mother of my little one, please do not be difficult of gender.My pictures on walls shall move easy and in theaters over cigarette smoke .The shadow play is not that difficult.

We blow our minds on easy religion.But it is difficult to keep going in desert.Dust storms are blinding a horizon.


The village house has an attic for pickles for a fussy grandmother to bring down ,for son-in-law arriving from far village. The pickles are brought down , sun-dried as son-in-law is bathed and fed in love. Has’t he come from far-off paddy fields ,in knee-deep slush, writhing with snakes with half -eaten frogs in closed mouths?

There is paddy lady rolling tongue on song about rain to bring rice on the sun’s death. In a slush the sun falls to temporary death. Just before dusk he will be whisked away to the posterior of an attic behind the hills.

All grandma’s pickles are left to dry in sun. But the sun is dead in attic behind grandma.The son-in-law is caught in the slush of rice. He rolls up his lower garment as the snake loosens mouth around the half-eaten frog.

Bus blue

A pale blue dot is home but the way things and sky and mountains rose we heard bus conductor say “right” .We’d dash off in a rickety village bus towards a distance and blue desire.

We and conductor are on same dot, his bag of money a small rectangle in the vast roundness of a blue dot. His “right” is powerful , with force a bus achieves desire and distance.

With no blue at the end of a desire, the bus blue turns afternoon gray but here is another blue beginning ,he and you and a mountain’s blue .And the mountains are so smooth in smoky blue daydreams of eyes and sky is blue in a pale white dot.

Child of the Universe

Child of the universe, you are no less than a stray dog with the crooked tail and a left front foot dragging in dust.

Child of the universe you discovered desiderata in early hours but late like Polonius behind a silk curtain for life.

Child of the universe you are no more for borrowing dulls edge of husbandry of your wife’s with her Gucci handbag.

Child of the universe you are no more, no less, than crooked tail wagging dog sniffing walking pant-legs down there.

(Following Max Ehrman’s popular poem Desiderata)

Nine holes

So as not fall into the older metric rut and everything ten, we stay in our nine to pause and reflect before we are ten. Iambic pentameter may do for us now in a verse leaving minds totally blank. A sonnet or two may awake a conscience to avoid our falling into sleep analogy.

Comparisons are the best for viewing. However odious, we know relative sizes and the light they cast on our daytime. At night it will be a different ballgame when moon hides in tall coconut trees and big or small, be crescent or ringed, comparisons are day-wise in fortnight.

Moon is eaten by the earth bit by bit. A demon drank nectar surreptitiously and annually eats the moon as if pie. Moon has turned marble like the graves of our older ancestors and not so old. A stitch in time will save all our nine we say Poloniusly in window curtains. It is where we hide snooping on death.

In any case we just burn our ancestors rarely bury them in moon-like graves.We are not rich to afford tall pyramids.(Neither borrower nor lender be policy.Borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.)

Nine nights , nine days we spin yarns what we have learnt by our nine holes.We have to stop some where by meter, before our holes are lost in a big Hole.