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.
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, 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)