The nawab clings to cinders, yearning for yesterday His paan performs a final somersault on the tongue.

There lies the great poet In the hamlet of Haiku Influenced by seeds My fellow wandering soul Content with the heart

i think i am owed secrets as though i’m one of a few earned caretakers or a suzerain fate has granted all sorts of trespasses but maybe it’s just like what my ex wife said before i packed the boxes i am only fascinated by what won’t let me in

The road might have taken us anywhere     but instead we are surrounded by birds     white birds black birds     all are forced out of metal     with gyroscopes and grease

And yes, Schrodinger’s cat has crapped all over the lawn. Street people are panhandling planets like food stamps, and all the fundamental particles of the universe are

I got moon boots, you got moon boots. We all scream for ice cream but to no avail – our prayers are answered at no better than the rate of chance. There's no glissando without stops and starts. Nor parallel nor intersecting, one guideline has teeth and one has dreams.

realizing it also has a pocket, wondering what a ten month old would keep inside. gazing at the blueberry stain as I vacantly rub a wet Q tip over it, again.

We are this and this and this,  cinders flaming like lighthouses enveloped by fog,  someone tripping in the yard,  someone stumbling through the door. 

I think slowly, with the deliberation I need to follow through sounds, not drop silverware.When I open my mouth, the oh sound doesn't ah, remains round.

The clear blue of the ocean deep swam in. And then out. The salt dissolved the knots in my stomach.

ah,  here is the robin      (Just) here, the wren      (Just) the sharp tongue of the irises      (Just) the velvet bud      (Just) Light and Earth      (Just)

For finding yourself in collisions You did not choose. You could not avoid. The Flesh around the cleaved frame

Holy darvish, Shams-i-perende, Kāmil-i-Tabrīzī — I had not known then that I had been looking for you.

Shine a light through my gullet doc and you'll see intestine walls lined with fishes that I drew as a kid. Fishes, yeah. Plural. Tried to warn them about war, doc. Nobody listened.

if the wind caught open scars and distant checkbooks there was no indication it was broke

We made love in the kitchen, dinner cooked In the stove, and then burned in the stove. I don’t recall what the third mouth was doing As her first mouth kissed me and the second mouth Talked and inhaled and talked and exhaled.

One of three brothers, one of three sons, he tells me, one Sunday his oldest brother choked him unconscious onto the kitchen floor just to see what might happen.

Elsewhere. she plays dumb, prefers the old school dumpster meeting in silence. Or the local Pentecostal bad boy and his one-hour evening advice sessions. Or playing dutiful daughter, Or playing tad dumb.

A country of broken tiffin-boxes we are- If you come from my village for lunch at my city home let me know beforehand; we shall meet at Curry Road station, both you and I...

Both will be stuck with the tab at the end of the night. I’ve been the lawyer, so sure that I can argue down disdain; the doctor, trying to heal the broken at all costs. Nobody wants to drink alone, but everyone does.

My second sleep, where red, white and blue are burning, the ashes gleaning and glinting as they die. I wake to the carmine rays of dawn and fall asleep to the sound of fireworks outside. I cradle the ivory dove in its mourning, whispering, “Am I alive? Am I alive?”

My mother rationed it like electricity, food enemies had to be beaten, bombs avoided fires put out Love would be shown in a more practical way through duty, service.