Experiential Distance

Even before a thought leaves my mind
with its open arms
out to grab your mind
and in it, settle

Carrying little of itself
but most of me.

I am supposed to use words
I am supposed to touch
Sing, sometimes.

That is all that i can do to close
Our experiential distance

You will recognize
from how i speak
the words i say
the way my lips quiver
and eyes close
what i mean.

I want you to be my experience
Feel my pulse as i feel my pulse
As a cadential gesture of unison.

But between us there is this huge
valley full of words
That were spoken, that were almost spoken
That are yet to be spoken, That are implicitly spoken
That are translated

Between your experience and mine
My very act of love is a translation.

लाल वस्तू

महाराजबागेतल्या गुंजेच्या झाडाखाली आईबरोबर बसून घालवलेल्या संध्याकाळी गुंजेचा पाला खाताना गुंजा वेचून, गोळा करून, घरी आणून सजवताना तशाच लाल गुंजांसारखे मखमली किडे पाळताना, त्यांना पावसाळ्यात पकडताना त्यांचा पाला गोळा करताना त्यांना लाजून गुर्फटताना बघताना, आईला दाखवताना मला थोडेच माहिति होते की हे अनुभव, आणि ह्या आठवणी कधी अशृ होतील आणि लाल शर्ट घालून त्या पावसाळ्याची आज तहान भागवावी लागेल

angry

my grandmother used to spot in us a hereditary anger the chest learning to well up blood learning to leap and breath learning to crawl foreheads burning with heat of little children the attempt of anger to become disgusting raging energy that will occupy every living stream. nobody wants to hold an angry person rage drunk, getting bigger and bigger until other people are invisible like ants and you can dissolve them in your hot blood and things around you break and shatter at this point she would hold. a violent hand shaking her away Ya I remember my grandmother used to spot it in us as children already And hold our hand "until you get over your rage I will not let go of your hand" hold VERY TIGHTLY "I will not leave your hand until you learn how you should calm down" i would fail despite that gesture to understand what was happening and i could not receive love at that time because i have so much anger But the act she is doing is still that of HOLDING

dumb tweets

are dumb tweets poetry? those about comical self deprecation? those about absurdity of lunchtimes the absurdity of predetermined systems the shit that is the economy the shit that is self preservation of social groups and the shit that is my period. aren't these the footsteps of revolutions built upon the personal that is the political a naked lump of clay - the self that has no rights without its body and identifiers. weren't the beats just writing tweets words, that fill up the spaces in empty cultural discourse a space for, a valence towards charged and electric words ionic words words that seem appropriate words in a new absurdist language a torrent, a warm current of intercontinental symbolically void and poisonous words. that live for a small slice like us and cicadas, chirp and die.

Sometimes serious

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