desire

i was slicing an apple when the blade of the knife darted across my finger pad,
i watched it to see if it would bleed, slowly it did, and then more than expected,
it ached dully, like desire aches, like yearning aches,
and while i ate that fruit i thought about sin,
Original Sin, Forbidden Fruits, and what temptation is,
I thought about Eve, a rib, and Adam, dust,
and i thought about snakes that tease our minds.

i used to be saddend by the full moon,
i thought its luminosity belonged to one man,
i see now that it belongs to all of us who sleep outside,
to all who take time to contemplate the sky.
--for fede

shivalik surrender

the smell of earth, pine and wild roses in the sun,
i cold have fallen down and died in that scent and it would have been ok,
the mythic sized ravens and wooly mountain dogs would have feasted on my flesh,
and wild strawberries grown up upon my clean white skull,
little dirty faced children would have played with my ribcage,
or turned one rib into a spout for the freely gushing springs,
everyday a family could have drunk from my abandonned bone,
i would have been the bringer of sweet nectar and the lifeblood of their home,
the smell of earth, pine and wild roses in the sun,
i could have fallen down and died in that scent and it would have been ok.

YOUR NAME
IN SILENCE
IS THUNDER

jungle swim

i'm slashing through the jungle,
blinded by sweat and the flies attracted to my stink,
spinning in fear of suspected tigers,
hoping to make them shy at the sight of my face,
the creepers are tripping me, grabbing me confusing me,
have i been along this path before?
the jungle grows faster than i can cut,
my face is sticky with spiderwebs,
and my claustrophobia screams for a clearing,
screams for an unobscured view of the sky.
but i'll tell you, strangely it feels more like swimming,
like dreaming,
my feet may be trapped in mud,
but i'm as light as the morning air.

thirsty apocalypse

i watched a dust storm on the far bank of the ganga,
i watched the horizon blur as the earth headed into the sky,
people stumbled on through the city,
masked like bandits,
a city full of desperadoes,
trying to save their eyes.

there was a tornado twisting across the kshipra,
full of grain and fertile soil,
it crossed along a footbridge
and died amongst the saints and temples,
where mosquitos made the river boil.

on a day full of sun, sun showy with his strength,
i laid in the dry bed of the betwa
using rocks to rest my head and giving in to violent heat,
feeling stones smooth from endless waters,
and i wondered where they'd went.

o stagnant sacred rivers,
banks dusty, thirsty, foetid,
will the next rain be enough?
is this one stage in your journey
or just a slow and dirty death?

o stagnant sacred rivers,
i saw light in the storm clouds today
and imagined michaelangelo's angry god,
thundering and threatening,
but threating what i was not sure,
will he bring floods for your salvation,
or will you die with cracking lips?
will you die with us sucking at your throats?
will it be a thirsty apocalypse?

4 memories that became a poem

there was a summer that i had a visit from the pie-baking philosopher,
we picked blackberries and lamented the inadequate length of our arms,
on the cliffs over the ocean he leapt like a goat and i stumbled like a drunk,
then drowned my telephone in bean salad while trespassing.

there was that night of driving, driving,
undertaken in the dark, i don't know where or why,
but there were many pine trees,
and i sat beside the cosmic ladies man to listen as the wind came,
the trees told us where the wind was until we could feel it for ourselves,
but we were silent and did not rustle like the pines.

there was that day we took green lightning and jostled through suburbs and wastelands and potholes to go to the forest and feel small,
there was a stream that we followed and a path that we lost,
the life there came so thick and wild we couldn't escape its gropes and caresses,
lost in the brush at the feet of giants.

there was that weekend on sombrio beach that was simple and good,
eating soup, watching waves and being naked,
a black bear crossed between me and the crippled bard,
telling us it was time to leave,
and as we walked along the gravelled shore the waves came and came and came.

reflections of love

the glittering lights of palaces and havelis,
made double, golden, by the setting sun and a twilight lake,
here there is romance, undoubtedly,
yet one must be wary of such splendid pleasures, for what glitters can obscure, transform, create love where there is none,
for it is better in the darkest alleyway, the dirtiest street corner, the ugliest face, an outstretched hand, if the heart is open and free.

that is love.
romance is only a beautiful reflection.

bombay

in the last city where parsis live and die,
i watched the buzzards swirl above the tower of silence,
i found their temple when i stopped looking for it
and thanked india for opening herself to me,
for opening me,
red bombay sunset soothing me
wading through a few million souls
watching the ocean move
and feeling my self move with it.