Sunday, March 15, 2009


It is time for the gentle luxuries of spring. I haven't slept in three years. This must be like a hangover. I celebrate time. The black continuum of years. Vast. I am careful to not step on dead gulmohur flowers, as if to protect the soiled innocence of them. Everyday, I write in my diary with invisible ink. I leave it around, conspicuously, wondering if you read between the lines of silence.

"O God, I am not like you
In your vacuous black,
Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.
Eternity bores me,
I never wanted it.

What I love is
The piston in motion . . .
My soul dies before it.
And the hooves of the horses,
Their merciless churn."