Tuesday, December 13, 2005

My muse sits


My muse sits, her fat white spotted shiny-skinned calves stretched folded
Against the power of her squat in the light by the door.

She chooses to be fat. As she chooses to not wear bras and dog ear books and

Leave me.

As she does, often.

Pain is often brought, so much that like an unwanted baby striped, cottoned and warm
Piles of it are left around the floor of my mind, second hand clothes…


I right.

I right for the might is in flight by night of words that bite with tooth-marks of light so blood run like kite like glory volcano sight.

I right.

I left my write a while back coz pain like a sack was stuck to my back till calcium lack made my knee go slack and…

I right.

Wait. I no right.

Now, I right.
Right so the all of the call will be
answered by rise and fall of apples
and the dead who are fed the seeds in your bed and…

I right.

Was I left?

I left the parts that were bought
And then sought on red silk that caught
Whispers like flu by corners in a loo and televised voodoo
That left you with plenty to see and nothing to…

I left when I knew that my muse read the news only for the funnies
And sweated in pews n' climaxed with the bunnies
That rolled on Discovery and possibly the green by the sheen
Of the moon and the Thames with Beatles in May.

I left where the word-pictures took curtain calls and made trunk calls
Where men and women left doodles on the walls of latrines whose sorrows
Were mourning waterfalls of lipstick and wishlick and Russian blonde heeled sputniks
All who ran man can pan hooved, laughing
Into the wilderness and jazz of parting, dancing.

I left who declared who be losers and who were the spared
Who cored my mind’s cunt and told me they cared
Who woke without grace or the necessary pace to get
Past the tangled sax of dreaming on a TV talk-show set.

I left how I came- plenty noise and taking my name
Back to before we turned the same like custard and mustard
All yellow and spineless no caress for the cess of our minds made sure
Our baits left us and we lost our lure

I left why I left why I left why I left
Why I left, was coz to die was a lie for
Who went? like your mothers back your will bent.

I left





I right to be left which is best for the zest of a lime cut fresh
That comes with a world free and hair-ee.
I right to be left that is political that like conical
Is a shape that is susceptible
To faith and fall and fear and the maul
Of not quite walking the straight yellow line.

I right.

Now I right?

What is left?

Space on the page of this flat white cage
To hold the purest part of my droppings of rage

Damn you.
What is left?

I write.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Googlistically speaking

I'm trippin'.

But honestly, this was fun. Unfortunately, 'priyanka' brought up way too much abt the gandhi and the chopra, and it got boring. And apparently, Google doesn't know the blue goblin yet.

[insert threatening yet woeful growls]

So I settled for this.

My favourite?

pj is the meta devil.

Go figure. Go be a googligan.

pj is the man
pj is 2sweet2bbeat
pj is in the babybedroom
pj is made of stars
pj is back home
pj is in need of a loving home in ca
pj is famous?
pj is drifting more and more away from the huge
pj is home
pj is like rodney dangerfield
pj is evicted from big brother
pj is out
pj is a developer toolkit for parsing
pj is home and big troubles
pj is distributed in binary form in a single jar file called hip
pj is the first user interface framework that brings state
pj is not a gi jane poster girl
pj is
pj is a shameless publicity hound so if you are with a periodical
pj is between p
pj is famous? pj is famous? posted by
pj is a champion 14 lb
pj is the best golfer on the team
pj is ready
pj is not a man of few words
pj is our older norwegian fjord gelding who was born "ryvar" on a farm in illinois in 1980
pj is drifting more and more away from the huge fanbase they used to have
pj is an angel on earth she has wiped away my tears
pj is the biggest agency in pechiney world trade and since 1994
pj is made of all mahogany
pj is growing out of the stripes around her face
pj is now doing their homework together with fbi to lock down "hackers" who aleggely are involved on us hacks
pj is diagnosed when the freckles are noticed or hamartomas are found in the intestinal tract
pj is fond of many outside activities
pj is illegal if
pj is a social science graduate
pj is a director of a successful ten
pj is a breath of fresh air
pj is one of the easiest
pj is the meta devil
pj is featured on lead vocals and accordian
pj is short for a pompano jig
pj is devoted to the history of the japanese people and how and why they react to one another within their own society
pj is sponsored by
pj is listed in the world artist directory
pj is eligible to work legally in the following countries
pj is a pourable version of the popular polywater® j high performance pulling lubricant
pj is an area located in the district of petaling
pj is a factor of m
pj is just naturally curious and ready for anything
pj is saved from her pretensions by the force of her talent
pj is our retired racing greyhound
pj is so unattractive and was'nt he childish going on about why alex never picked him
pj is one of the best clowns in america winning numerous awards for her creativity
pj is a complete visual programming language based on the concepts of parallel
pj is for you
pj is a parlor
pj is defensive
pj is introduced as a man who has all the answers
pj is a toolbox for parsing
pj is wanting to get first tickets and she's first on the line
pj is clearly at height t+1 we have completed the induction
pj is currently enjoying a two
pj is also a member of the american association of suicidology and is both a member of and certified by the association for death education & counseling as a
pj is still scheduled to play bumbershoot in seattle on aug
pj is having no trouble keeping her music fresh while keeping her vision pure
pj is a big boy & is already potty trained
pj is the odds
pj is trypsin
pj is in a better place now
pj is contained in xðp; jÞ
pj is one to look out for
pj is now tested against pk
pj is all too happy to set the record straight now that he is back in the real world
pj is a relatively easy model to restore given the fact that there were more than 350
pj is currently busy working on
pj is a great source file management tool
pj is ?
pj is a very affectionate hamster and just loves to be cuddled
pj is the millennium place project coming up in the section 14 area

Saturday, December 10, 2005

"The dead suffered a wrong. Uphold justice"

There is a fishing village near Hong Kong and its name is Dongzhou. At the mouth of the bridge leading to their village, a group of Dongzhou's residents, numbering about 100, gathered to hold a banner with the above line scrawled on it.

The chinese paramilitary forces are at it again.

And here is the curious truth: Tiananmen Square was apparently not enough for the administration. And neither is the first time since 1989 that violence has been inflicted on the little people in China.

It happened because the villagers were protesting the building of a power plant.

This is not the first time. If it aint a power plant, its oil ownership issues. If it aint oil, its the falun gong.

And the only reason yankville hasn't said anything to chinaland is because of trade and deficits.

The things you can buy these days. Silence, blindness, and battery operated foot massagers.


The United States, which generates a quarter of the world's greenhouse gases, had questioned the need to engage in even nonbinding talks on the subject. When the Europeans and Canadians proposed such talks Thursday, chief American climate negotiator Harlan Watson rejected it on the grounds that it would be tantamount to formal negotiations.

"If it walks like a duck and talks like duck, it's a duck," Watson told the other delegates, according to several participants in the closed midnight session.

As Watson walked out, one of the other delegates, baffled, responded: "I don't understand your reference to a duck. What about this document is like a duck?"
- 'U.S. Joins Informal Talks on Warming', by Juliet Eilperin
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, December 10, 2005; Page A01.

Read the full article here.Only good thing about yank Presidential second terms: they're on the way out & don't give a duck's beak about winning the vote of petroleum paladins and arms manufacturers. Thus they can finally concentrate on energy policies that will keep us all, bird and human alike, breathing easier.


Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Mall-Run: For Frank O'Hara*

Sunday Afternoon 12:21 all's fogged up
Inside the bus the men and women you will never find on Oprah
Wait for the final wheezing stop.
As corny as that first Godzilla we breathe furious white smoke
And rush Into the made in china warmth of PROVIDENCE PLACE
like it's the thanksgiving sale
The president
Or a jumper off the Newport bridge.

Speakers and mp3 players on sale: the only
Things sold that aint nano are the milk jugs down at 7/11.
Maya and I walk on, fists buried deep in pockets.
But where I really want to be is outside in
All that glorious slushy first real snow of Providence.

I'm not sure who's bigger today; Sponge bob,
Or the shot glass special at CRATE & BARREL.

"But where I really want to be is outside in
All that glorious slushy"—Hold up, Jack she tells me
As we scramble out of the arms of the last salesgirl
At VICTORIA'S SECRET. 2:55pm and it feels like daylight saving
And American Idol reruns. We need out.
I hold the door
For a guy in an Ozzfest hoodie. We exit.
3:05 now: we miss one bus so there's time for
Any god damned beautiful adventure in the world.
The skaters out in KENNEDY PLAZA look mournful,
Like they just found out Disney paid off the senator
To keep them forever circling to Brenda Lee:
Rockin’ around the Christmas tree.

We stand outside the 7/11 and smoke gloveless
Shivering. Holding a pint of 2% and saying THIS finally,
Aint just Bristol. There's the sign to New York, all snowed over,
We could hitch a ride, find an Uno’s and—
Yeah sure I have a lighter, and the guy says thank you and we're all right.
Screw NYC. This tight-sphinctered quaffing cheap coffee
And kids huggin and kissin only coz its this cold
Is where it's all at.
And Tim Allen in a fake beard can't find us here.

I'm so happy I want to make my third snowball of December,
But before I can ask Martha Stewart for ribbon and some tape
The 60 steams, waiting—she knows where we have to go.


This poem was written on the first snow-day, here in rhode island. Maya and I went to the mall, and this be the account of that day. Statutory warning: some bits fictionalized. But of course ;)

*Frank O'Hara is one of the poets we've covered in class this semester: just covered, in fact. Last poet before the final paper, good lord. Our assignment was to write a "I do this/I do that" poem, the kind he is known for. O'Hara used everyday images and the idiom he knew, of the time he lived in yankville. I tried doing the same, except using the images and idiom of today.

Two of my favourites of his are A step away from them and the day lady died. Here's more of his stuff online.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Written on Samhain*

I sit here atop their faery palace.
I am permitted, because they have taken to watching.
The new gods displaced no one:
They only stopped running and stood still,
Feet rooting into earth--
Long fingers clutching at leaf cover.

They stand curved and listening.
You won't see them till you
Lean against them,
Wind whispering in the leaves above your head.

The Lochness sleeps at the bottom of the bay,
Smiling in his dream.
Except on this night
Except for tonight

Look at the pebbles at your feet:
Old bits of driftwood and dragon tooth.
Some slate.
All tools to leave a note for them
That they will laugh over once the party is done.

Here where the grass grows—ramparts.
Here where cigarettes have been stubbed out: a watch tower.
Here where the marigold grows: a moat.
Your behind rests on a turret: a tiny telescope watching for ravens.

They know your schedule.
When the lights come on.
How the sprinklers work.
Why campus security will not climb these ramparts.
Especially this night.
Especially tonight.

They let the grass grow into the moat.
The draw bridge rotted and turned to soil.
A beer can crush lies where the levy would gather.
My ungainly foot stomps in a fairy circle.

But as the last leaves are lit by the setting sun,
Their faces hidden in flames laugh as they wait
For their night
For tonight.

For the campus security will not climb these ramparts,
And I have made an offering
Of a chocolate bar and my sorrows.
Speak the ancient chants and light no lamp--
Then you will see their glittering eyes and hear
The ancient harp being tuned, underneath you, near.


Samhain- the ancient name for a tradition that is now translated in popular culture as Halloween. Pronounced "sow-in", it is honoured by those of the celtic tradition.

Winter Haiku

breath falls with the snow.
trees hold only grey chest hair--
loss bites like young crabs.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

The Light-- Non-fiction

December 2, 2005. 7:35pm.

Providence Place isn't a big mall, but when you lose the only three people you know in that tinsel-wrapped world, it is suddenly larger than a New York traffic jam at 5:15, with the grumbling coffee, and the bags, and the files...

I was lost. With a bag, grumbling into my turtleneck, trying to find in my ipod the same solace I used to seek in mum's neck when such impossible events would happen in the past. No such bloody luck.

I was lost. The three moroccans were busy GAPing or Banana Republicing somewhere, and I couldn't find them.

It got worse.

I had never been into Providence before. Mum calls it the Hermit Crab complex. Call it what you will, it also meant that I had about as much knowledge of the bus numbers and stop locations in Providence as would a Tibetan Monk of the Tabo Chos-Khor Monastery.

Metallica on ipod.
Filene's shopping bag folded severely under one arm.
Survival instinct kicked in-- They are three. I am one. I will survive.

I carpe diemed my way out of the mall, looking for restaurants and crushed soda cans as signs of the way we came, the only things that could point me towards the bus stop. One doesn't try asking Rhode Islanders for help. An unwritten law.

Shapeshift-- Nose to the wind Here, the basement irish pub. Roamer, wanderer, nomad, vagabond And here again, the crushed autumn leaf that looks like diseased liver call me what you will. There, a lamp-post with the red car underneath dance little tin goddess, dance. 5 steps more and-- yes, the crushed day old Providence Journal section, with the Darkness on the cover St. Anger round my neck, he never gets respect. Cross street. Wait. What I've felt, what I've known, never shines through what I've shown Cross another street. Stop girl who's smoking, who fumbles instantly for her lighter assuming that's what Im asking her Gimme fuel, gimme fire, gimme that which I desire. Girl, boyfriend and madly barking dog direct me towards the stop. 7:50pm. Get on the bus oh please God, wake me .

8:20pm. Miss my stop, because its my first time and No Leaf Clover is on my ipod and I like listening to it at a volume louder than what the driver uses to announce the stops in.

8:21pm. Im on the wrong side of the bridge that connects Bristol and my college to Portsmouth and the rest of the world. But it was a bridge, and I assumed I would walk over it like I've walked over the chetpet overbridge so many god-awful times in madras.

But here's the deal.
Madras has no winter, and chetpet lake no deep water.
A sign says its illegal to cross the bridge on foot.
The foot-path's a foot wide, no more and no less.
The metal railing comes upto my upper thigh, no more and no less.
Winds blowing at 24 knots seem to want me and my blue coat flapping over the bridge, down into the black flat water faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrr below.

I begin to curse. Not god, not my parents, not my ipod-- But the conductor, the bridge-layer, the wind, and gravity. I cursed and swore at them all, yelling that I-- 3 cars go by, zip zip ZIP!-- would be alive, past winter and its silly wind-- ZIP! and another ZIIIP!-- inspite of my blue coat flapping and the narrow sidewalk-- ZIP! zip, zip ZIP!-- I WILL SURVIVE!

Fuck me. I was going to fall off a bridge and die just when I had bought a nice dress and was heading home in two weeks.

Maybe I should pray, I thought.

"The Lord is my Shelter and my Refuge"

One misquoted, tiny psalmic line. I attempt thinking of the second line when--

A car pulls up. Black family van. Elderly couple in the front. The woman is frantically smiling and opens her door to ask me if I'd like a ride.

I blubber. Overwhelmed-- am I still in rhode island? Is this heaven? Did mum send you?-- and frostbitten, I scramble into the back. She tells me they went by me, and she had asked her husband to turn around because she was worried about that "young girl" out alone on the bridge. I thank her profusely, continuously, my own little mantra. Om mane padme hum. She says she has children of her own, and couldn't have let me walk it all the way back.

4 minutes later, I am across the steel monster and at the gates of my university. They drive off, I sniff and take glad muddy strides in firm, flat and large earth.

One misquoted, tiny psalmic line. Om mane padme hum.

There is a god. Hopefully, he'll be around and sniggering next time I endeavour a Mall run.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Winter Litany

Holy Holy Holy
Holy the weaving withered golden hands,
ten thousand leaves arched here above me.
Golden fingers reaching
inspite of raging winds over the dead grass.

Holy Holy Holy
Holy the tight elastic
cutting, every second carving
into my skin the reminder that
I am human and must needs sleep.

Holy Holy Holy
Holy the thorny honey locust tree
Bare branches reaching like a many veined artery
into the warmth of my father's heart.

Holy Holy Holy the moon hidden
from the cold in november clouds and rain.

Holy Holy Holy is the fallen ash
fanned to embers by winds howling holy.

Holy is my fat self running to time my last puff
with the top of the hill
and slash's eternal guitar riff.

Holy is this night
Holy is the amber glow
Holy my thumb, with its 20 year old scar
Holy the dew on this glistening black tar.