Yellow school bus taking children
To learn the multiplication tables

Was heading towards planet creek.
At the end was no sea of learning.

All we were doing is philosophize
For laugh over the times’ quiddity,

A driver fatalistic about school bus
In one-up take on a school system.

Stick in mud

Silence extends beyond poet
We have not heard of earlier.
Her poem blooms her silence

And your night and her days.
It is all our extended silence
Which you have not heard of.

We are an extended silence.
We are poets buried in quiet.
We are a silent stick in mud.

(Remembering a short-lived poet of silence Flora Alejandra Pizarnik (1936–1972) )

Temple bell

We would see the priest dance
A camphor’s flame around God

Lighting up God’s smiling face
And the bell would ring hollow

And a fragrance of God’s smile
Would rise on camphor’s death.

Our God would smile in hollow
From metallic variations of bell

And the dying flame of oil lamp
In falling fever of bell’s tongue.

Borges’ labyrinth

Into this labyrinth, let us recall
Not the Minotaur at its center

But the blind poet’s death day,
And my birth day dating back

To hard boiled toffees we had
Distributed when kids in class.

We can’t find when blind poet
Was born in imagined library

Before blindness set in library.
A reader had recent birthday

And may have many for sure
If he rises from his blindness

To live memory of birthdays,
When kids made fun sounds

On birthday toffees he gave
As tongues would hit  roofs

Of their  mouths that knew
No Minotaur in major mazes.


We may emulate tiny sparrow
With its swiveling screw neck,

And the fickle sparrow’s love
Upon a typically grainy dawn.

The sparrow notices its body
Inside the granules of sunrise

But a love is grainy all times.
Love’s body is dust in sunset

Leaves no mark on any space
And sparrows leave no stone.

All the shadows left by them
Are  grainy for wall murals.


Whatever I say, now I forget
What I contained in the past.

I forget all my old certitudes.
I forget I was ever the same

Bumbling contradicting self
A little too small for old self

So I say your coffee or mine.
And I forget I was too small

For any major contradiction.
As always, a little too small

For saying, what I say a big
That I am a little too small .


Feelings are lizards less tongue-tied
And they stick out tongues in open.

In a wilderness we are tongue-open.
Words fly in the wilderness at a sky,

That hangs precariously on all of us.
Back in homes, we are tongue-tied

In holes of space, unlike the lizards
Under a precariously hanging sky.

In a wilderness we stick out words
To catch our meanings at random.