We turn to the face book for a face,
A nameless face in a dusty outreach
Etched by a restless toe in the dust.
Never mind a moonface in the dust
Liking the dust of another moonface
Its contours lost in a dusty profusion.
All faces feel the same to toes in dust.
In today’s midnight I have to weave
A poem around the spider that had
Fallen on my body and would crawl
To silky promise of my new clothes.
I would scrub the crawly thing off
And would watch it crawl on floor.
In poem I should not spider-weave
A tale about spider’s instant death
Under unknowing lunch eating feet.
In a poem I cannot dwell too much
On a stray spider’s micro tragedy.
Mom’s guru had vanished behind
A custom warehouse,her mantra
Left in mom’s ears above waters.
Disciple has since entered a soul
Of mango tree whose leaves are
Fluttering like birds in mild wind.
Wind must be fluttering mantra
Left behind in my mother’s ears
Now operating below the waters.
We are driving a nail too hard
In our wall, through masonry
Bricks that were made by kids
Their feet hardly out of slush,
Their truth Nobel prizes chase.
We hang our weighty religion
On a nail as our last innocence
Is ducking under school desks
From hails of random slogans.
Dead kids are penultimate nail
On our common coffin leaving
Nobody to bury it after the nail.
Staring strips away noisy shells
Laying quiet quintessence bare.
Staring at the wall reveals flies
Sitting on the white of the wall,
Builds bonds between bro. souls.
We can also stare through them
Master ways to penetrate souls
Without bodies to contain them.
the horses have since bolted
to the Himalayas where they
now climb us to phallic gods.
we are spared the ignominy
of putting cart before horse
but wishes have not stopped
the equine run even for a day.
Heaven’s accountant up there
Keeps tally of small credits
As we save karma for a place
Where beautiful girls dance.
We have big bills in pockets,
No loose change for beggars
To build our afterlife credits.
No posthumous culture for us.