Wont you come and see
how I am shrinking
like an elastic too stretched
…and the fragrance of loveless tree

my stem is drawing from them

Nails to fit me in a coffin!

Tulips I

Today I know
There is an error
In the sum
at the east of my pelvic

something making me a fish for air
to barter poetry
long time since I wrote something
so the body broke into a rebellion
waiting to be gauged
under electric moons
and tape and camera

and scissors that espied
the healthy, now dark intestine within
with an antelope

schhhh- schh—skree- screeching

no. cannot remember the hyacinths
cannot remember the story-teller
of the giant inside my body

cannot think of gulping
the remaining vodka
cannot allow noodles to caress
down my throat
or his love to moisten the tip
of the broken mound

suns are over, and all naturals
so are all flowers and leaves of my book

so I fear the page
where Sylvia got her Tulip printed…

the doctor has to determine the rage
of a meaningless punctuation within

,
.

Six words!
the moon explodes. night-dark destitute

Four Words!
impression real unreal halucinatory

Disconnected

1.

I am at the balloon-man’s cart

Under the old porch of Grisham’s box

With men and women throwing out of the door

their evening-selves- the street suffocates

And young children pull the string

of my helium headed body

That is sold for a rupee!

2.

And a strong wind forced the destitute

-the old anemic leaves, and crisp twigs,

The unsatisfied paper out off the window

It tried the dresses on the clothesline, none fitted, strewn

My face with eyes and lips still at its place

Under the weight of his nose

3.

How should we not be hypocrites?

We dodge truth

beneath the embroidered fancies

and filigree of social strictures.

A soft baked morning

The gurgle of melted piano reed

maples and framed glasses

the moon you admire

I posted it off the eternal print

It has no nerves, no ribs

On Burnt....

Berries scorched in the embers of jaw
And the licking fire lighted the shrine
That lay unattended by the musical preacher
Like the privacy magazines in my dad’s drawer!

You taught me the art of flute
To limit the music to the pores and lips
Lest neighbours would envy
The luxury of my jewelries
Like as a growing girl I won’t be allowed to play
Lest all the myth of puberty flew away

You wade across to seize the lotus stems
And you never see the water bleed
It is when images turn white apples
And frosted pines struggling to penetrate the sky
wriggles…
you being your self
and the silhouette of your kisses
like uncles and aunts known for ages.

From Lodzki

I am not a poet
I sally into it for the books carry it
And brings under my specs to strip the structure…

I have eyes coated thick
With the ink that I rub over my thesis
No dinner at colleague’s parlor,
No pen, books or filler
Subtract me from the locus
My eyes tuned to the hallowed yell of
A repulsive woman
With whom I rationalized a living over
T H I R T E E N y e a r s

But she has been a window
On my prim body
That once by chance I went through
And determined to miss her …So

I lost my phones in quick succession
As I spread it through…

She came with roses
Early morning when I made with my wife
A quick sip of lemon tea and the remaining…
For so T E A people we are…

Come up
And she walked all the pores
Of the stairs
An appointment appointed to my surprise
To kiss me all over below the sunsets
To which I never answered.

That day though demurred

Is a pre-doctoral asset
Of a connection just felt
Over lectures and boring iron rails
That benched my seat to the rest.

I can never be a poet
With my wife lost in the Polish Maples
And I in the conflict of politics
Politicizing a hand on research

Researching nothing
But the date to get back
To pay her bus fare
Who would ardently follow me
In the absence of my eyes

Or else write poetry
Waiting for me to pen within
Or
Under…