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in motion

There is a place not so haunted, that has remained, bearing
the sound of a muted rain lashing on car windows,
on a long street without sharp angles, and several red stop lights
the low monotony of wipers going left - up - left - up

I have been walking around waiting, for the bells I hear
to mean revolution, and the prisons of strong cars
To not be in my mind, but with everyone inside
not too close to not breathe.

I see the blobs streetlights, in watercolor yellow, and midnight white
No matter which street this is, or which day, or what festival we are decorating for,
or what turn of the seasons, has brought us here
To buy a ride is anonymous disappearance
in an unnamed city.

No matter how I hold your hand, or whose hand it is i hold,
and what questions you ask, about the dredges and trails of the days memory,
What kind of times are these, where to be in these fifteen minutes of false safety
must be, as, to be in motion?
Recent posts

window dressing

one day you might realize that you are
an extra
a cog, a burnt out piece of equipment
in the rube goldberg world
that is planned by no one
an entirely replaceable piece of
window dressing

as an ode to strangers,
withholding immense suffering in their beings
fighting immense indifference on the outside
we're all trying to be more than
window dressing

even on that day
a stray runner looks into your house after nightfall
at your mundane activities
watching tv, and arranging flowers
for a sense that
there's at least someone that's at home

a colleague might walk by your desk seeing
you gaze at amazement, at your instantaneous boredom
a sign of life, and engagement
of energy flowing around them

your laughing at a dog video in a bus
your irritating sneezing in a concert
your presence in a party as nobody
your terrible stroke in the pool
your dumb tweets
your

things are truly better expressed than not
and when we all speak together, aloud
fortissimo tutti chaotic clouds
thunderin…

how ar eyou?

if you ask me today:
HOW ARE YOU?
and ask me again in 3.5 hours
and then again in two weeks

and a month again, over
text messaging.

How are you? :)

I might have to keep telling you:
like shit.

just as many times.

But that a question was raised.

A QUESTION WAS RAISED about how i was.

is enough to trigger uncertainty
that i feel like shit.
Heisenbergs microscope
trying to measure something

despite knowing that
the answer is:
SAD.

BUT AS LONG AS WE CAN ASK,

WE WILL NEVER BE SURE THAT
IT ALWAYS IS.

masochistic epistemology

I tried to hurt myself using you  weaponizing you  turning your care ballistic  and my softness into weak armor 
i tried to use the hollows of your lower back as landmines  your words as small sharp blades that fit into old razors and broke in twos  your lips as quagmire meant for drowning 
i used your attraction as fission a devastating proxy for the  surplus destructive energy in  my own mind
when your love was not enough  i used your presence as war horns  alerting formations of my hearts cavalry  into attacking your defenseless desire  your scattered battalions that were only looking for me 
when I waged this war, i even used your indifference to hurt me  a blunt injury sustained under my very living skin  a slow passage of bloodclots into a series of hurtful colors 
why?  why do we cut ourselves?

my name

i trusted you with my name
when i taught it to you

you, the you
in the second person
that has become my dialogical self
irritatingly
speech that is either self directed
or directed at the Other

our stories could be anyone's
with enough empathy
but our name and our skin
are only ours, and our skin
dies with us
but our name
it can be flung

around as nebulous identity
and it can be hidden
and thereby forgotten
as would be in death.

i should not have trusted you
with my name when
i taught it to you.

depression as copula

in marathi, we say
that a depression has come,
it has arrived, been welcomed.
taken its slippers off, having tea
watching television in your living room.

in english we say
that we are depressed,
that use of copula, equation
symbolic castration
of its tyranny as identity

a mental state may or may not be
an externalising force

'my depression' we call it
our ownership of our darkness
our right to assert the sweet sweet
depths of black darkness
our power to let it bend
at our will,
knowing that it doesn't.

every time we forge a relationship
with a mental state
like unicellular organisms
achieving mitosis
not as clones, but as a twisted
splitting
of a dicotyledon

i don't speak all the languages
but in some there must be
a gentler way
a kinder alternative
for our own minds.

sub liminal

for all of that which is sub-liminal
under the margins
waiting to snap but hasn't already
the pressure under the bubble
the steam under the whistle
the clot under the rupture

we must suffer under the margins,
the allocated scale for reparation
starts when you gain 50 points,
and not 49,
and so for 49 - you must suffer

you are sub-liminal to be helped
and must help yourself,
the world is divided
most often
into two (2).
and not more.