Skip to main content

To worry?

It seems like only a few days ago
that we were crouched upon
my father's forehead
trying to iron out
the wrinkles born from his day upon day

Now we sit explaining
how we were
and all of us are
born into a world
where nothing can be changed anymore
left only with a fleeting illusion
of control

the wrinkles on the landforms
and the fleeting seasons can explain
what is going on.

We are talking, meeting, discussing, and allocating
funds and sanctions
budgets and assets
taking reports
Persecuting and hating on people
assigning blame where we think it's due
finding what exactly is wrong
as if we know

As if we know anything from graphs and sheets
and networks. Data and models.

Did they fear - the people from Harappa,
what was the end of the world to them?
And the ice agers?
What were they born into?

Maybe we are the only ones who have
lost touch with calamity.

Only everyday expression matters.

Only that matters which lifts the spirit
gives space to melancholy from day to day
Not from the illusion of control
but from the illusion of will
that alone can create any joy
at all
and iron some wrinkles.

Popular posts from this blog

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.