That he no more exists is still in the recycle bin. He is in the process of erasure.His records will be emptied when the bin will be emptied.
In the meantime he is under a glass sky .He stares at the glass sky till the bin is emptied .
He is now adequately cottonballed in the nose.The ants have to be stopped in his neural pathways.
That he no more exists is now no longer in the recycle bin.
Something came up in green beside our highway, from car, we stopped, to leak like sky.A lone tree rose in silence on an expanse of rice for future.A white room stood company with a machine to leak water to the rice , a future growing in unknown stomachs in wait.
Tree stood bare in the sky with a tuft of green to a side,oddball green against a blue,a broken piece of vegetation soaked in silence leaking there.
A few somber thoughts into it , the lexicon of a new headstone would rise in tomorrow’s sleep against your wishes, towards a horizon as you plod along , drag your feet in the thicket with a shovel for deep digging for scoopfuls of earth.
You cannot grow out of it now , this night. A name is a name, whatever rose you may call it. But if tomorrow ever lives you may still get out of it leaving it nameless among roses spread on it.
Lady poet would think of an arm not moving ,not gesturing, to write without a secretary by side. But she is free with the other arm to move watching the horizon, ascending and descending.
(Taking off on Louise Gluck’s poem Approach of the Horizon)
A water enters cold and wet dousing fires, orange in blue ,a sweet thought, a cold wind. A heat in the concrete cement granules vanishes on a parapet to night and a night crumbles darkly. A tree dies, a fruit ripens ,a flower falls its red feet up. An earth shivers down tree ,a sky falls ,the cloud breaks.
A colour flies ,a wind wavers ,an orange creeps up gently .A hill fattens, a tree is blue .A lake streaks in pure silver.
You end up with a nothing ,just a ball of fire in the east.
The train ploughs through the night,in a manner of speaking, as sleeper ploughs through a sleep in the train. Everything is a manner of speaking.
(Sleeper may be my wife in the train but that is not manner of speaking)
Poem words are best allowed to fly off from the rails where the train’s wheel ploughs the night to let off its sparks in manner of speaking, riding a night when sparks of silence fly off a sleep while the train is ploughing the night.
(Like the knife sharpener in the street as his foot ploughs through machine),
Words are sparks flying off night like from knife sharpener’s machine,sparks that do not light lonely nights but are just another manner of speaking.
Let us list things of that evening when the dusk light flooded, through the tree, this wiry man and woman .
They were winnowing for the day, sifting the wheat of gold from powdered chaff, against light wind in muscular swing of the male arm, and upturned female face, their bodies synchronised in an exquisite wheat-dance.
Happiness lay somewhere in this jumble, in this list.
A pacific storm is story of animals and man, their together on the sea, with a gust of wind in the aft, a Bengal tiger prowling ,a sailor dead, a zebra, a hyena for not laughing ,a boy on flotation to three gods for praying.
The pi has to live off the sea air, its drinking water. The pi has no life, a variable radius with center drifting away in storm to the carnivorous islands where algae throttles lives of God-seeker boys who live in concentric circles, widening circles,the last one of which they may not complete.*
The pi has to circle around his God like a falcon or like the storm around a boat ,on its flotation. It is a story’s version that makes the difference .
(After viewing the film Life of Pi. -* Reference is to Rilke’s poem Widening Circles )