I never liked poetry
They were
Voices from the middle
of earth uncorrupted
Never coming
Or ever left


I never liked poetry
It
Like a friend
That made all
all-right
Beautiful and damp
And
Mostly loud in my
loneliest hours.

I never liked poetry
How it
In a rainy morning
Always
Pushing itself to lift my
keys
May be mastered by
thousands of years.

I never liked poetry
It could break all
hang overs and libraries
For my last all years
It sang me The Valentine
In short three lines.

I never liked poetry
Ordinary mostly
more ordinary than an old man
It does, oh, yes it does
Have deep void eyes
Extending the shoulder
Touching and tracing
to brush me up.

I never liked poetry

When I am standing on the Golden Threshold; nothing can stop me from embracing my love; nothing can be more "precious".

The insufferable sexists!

Everywhere I go these days I hear sexist jokes / jabs. From both sides. Mostly Juvenile context dropping. It’s a rare humor or sarcasm that does not lose the frame and still retains humor. But, how difficult is it to see such humor really!

Why is it so difficult to look at individuals as individuals with their own compelling kitty of traits? Everyone is playing to their strengths to get what they want; it’s the case of the kettle calling the pot potty and the Pot calling the kettle Black!

As though blaming the opposite sex absolves people of all the mischief they do in others lives. Tch!

Sample this, a tweet from one Vijay_Joshi:

"Women are like police, they can have all the evidence in the world but they still want a confession"

Yeah, right. Where does that leave the church? They are convinced of your guilt but still demand a confession. And why forget that most of the police wanting a confession are "men" dealing with the so called "guilty"?

Everyone is shirking responsibility of their actions one way or the other. Guilt is the most common token used.

I see people using the systems when they want to blame someone and oppose the same systems when its coming in the way of what they want! Talk of double or even quadruple standards.

Which is fine as well, no really, but its quite sickening when this is done without the knowledge that it is being done! And then you see meaningless movements assuming meaningless dimensions creating many sub-systems of power mongering. Filthy.

Its these systems that demands confessions through their mouthpieces; its like confessions of others put you in a place of power, and feed your low esteem with a shot of ego; a temporary relief and high. Both individuals and organizations alike. Ever wondered what a world that is purged of all these puerile systems will smell like?

I have no problem with people taking flawed positions for humor as long as they are aware of flaws to begin with. Its not genuine humour but some people buy it anyhow. But where does ones own awareness stand? That is a vital question to ask.

Everyone who files a case in defence to their own traits is working on the principle of being a sexist. In that sense, I am a sexist too. But that has never come in the way of my respecting individuals out there in love with their traits. But it is the insufferable sexists that I caricature in my mind. Those that are convinced of the guilt of the world around but theirs. Truly religious in chastity!

Its good to be childlike without being childish! But that is too much of wishful thinking for a day.

In art, I would love to re-discover the humor of an intelligent child. A refusal to recognize the limiting structures; and a guiltless smile.

Pebble, who me,
May be and if the mirror
says too
The mirror carried me
It was
Pure cool flowing
In the journey of creation

I was the mountain,
So said the skies to me,
But wanted to know who I
was
Not the whole,
But me, I had to know about me

This stream was eternal
I had seen it flowing forever
And one day I just broke away
I knew now the stream would be
all that my evolutionary story
would depend on
Then days of flowing, bumping
In an eternal blackness and echo
I saw my God's depth increasing
Flowing with greater speed and quietness
I knew I was now in my river
I saw banks, trees, and lights
In awe, I took mightier blows,
I was lighter now, smoother,
And could roll

I flowed and I was everything
And nothing
The river and me were one
The mirror and me in the float
Of journey to some sea,
To some endless home.

Children in bright clothes
Playing in the sun
With fountains and colors
Plain and chequered

The dream went in to the
ceiling
I was silent
And I knew I saw
my planet
and in that my street
Love was thinking and playing

I woke up and asked
as to what was going on
May be I had not yet woken up
Had I, I wouldn't be asking that
question
But I did
and I was intrigued

Crazy, yes
this I never knew
would be a common situation
May be visuals would stop
or Audio would get more stereo
Something would or would never
come to stop

So this seemed like a wheel
from I am to
a street in a flash
The change from here to there
and from there to where where

Do what I write
Paint a picture,
Does it reveal a story,
A romance?
A kiss of memory
Unspoken misunderstandings

What does it speak of,
Farms
Bricks
Me
You
Or the one who asked me to keep on
writing and never to back off

Does it transcend you to
some other space and time
Reminding of cats and barking
Songs never heard, notes not so common
disjointed and confused

Or may be
nothing high
no lows
No stairways, nothing happening
hollow metal ringing
But I argue
even if the sky feels gray
I have achieved what was
asked from me
from my story teller

Hopeful tears of arrogant pride

A mind moved
To an I am
Then
To a mind that learnt 
to walk from inside to
outside

Moment to moment
It stepped all over
And painted a universe
A we was born 
From inside to outside
It was an idea
That inspired humans
To become humans

You talk to me in your love and your hate. You experience me in your limitations. You are with me in all your experiences. Thank you.

Taken on May 22 2011 - NYC Subway.

Trees heal
Flowers go nuts
No one's in trouble
Except trouble itself
It is the first kiss
That is the last kiss
Then it is first again
With it being last again

I must have gone nuts 

He was a theist in the womb
He was a robot
Intimately acquainted with
the womb holder's mind
It was never one mind
The womb holder was too
a robot
Talking with it without
knowing
Everything in mirrors
and it was named WE
Heading down the road
was this lonely robotic
trucks

I would do something now
It would matter to disagree
With The God
And if it has a mind
It will know it's mistake
That it can never know
What goes on in my mind.

Climbed a hill
Made my nose go up first
A fire in belly
Made more heat

A cup of coffee poured
And all that wiggling inside head
Leaving me in the air and
The hill in the sky

Saw
Life shinning on sun
I looked like a byproduct
Of what went in and when I came out
I am then the life
That shines on the sun

If you are caught in a cycle and you know it, then there are other possibilities. You are a threat for in you I see the beginning of chaos.

To be in a position of having choice itself is suffering. A choice made is a momentary relief. To refuse the choice is neurotic. To want a position of having no choice another choice. To choose frequently is isolation. To choose sparsely is self-inflicting. 


Yet there is a choice. Make it.

The self can never die in company. Yet it might never die in solitude. A self that flows should be left to its own device.

To nip in the bud, is to avoid the love for the beauty of flower, and the suffering of its waning. Yet this very thought is cause of suffering flung upon the world that is yet to discover the beauty of the flower;  

Accept my ground. Or trade for another, I am always conscious of my feet.

The only responsibilities I recognize are the ones I assume to be mine.

My act of standing my ground is no sacrifice. For in it I sow all my seeds, the bloom I seek is right here.

I have everything I need, where I stand. That is all that I need to see. There is no solitude I seek, like there is no company you can offer. There is no wait.

It is not the dented pride that is self inflicted. It is not the guilt that is the accepted currency of exchange. It is that the individual can never lose his identity. Just not possible.

A woman that has cast indifference to what has been given as her right, has gained power over the man violating her rights. Yet is it freedom devoid of passion? 

No path is without a friction. I walk the path that has the most of it. The feet experience no pain, I cast them not on the path.

A dream that ends, without the conclusion I desire, is my suffering. A dream has to change too. Everytime I change my dream, I have to kill the one behind. How can I not hurt you?

A moment serves its purpose when I let it pass. 

It isn't causeless this suffering; not to be shunned like its opposite. But the cause I see can evaporate when I touch it. The heat of the body is unbearable. I do not relive my suffering; but I cannot pass you the freedom. I am sorry.

The ball comes to a stop; but I can imagine its flight, there is no friction; nothing to stop the intention.

The seeing has not ended; but the dreams evaporated. 

Exacting.

In a world where more than a million works of art are produced every year; its too much of an indulgence to allocate more than the necessary resources on any one of them. Some might argue that art in those two hours or few minutes can be a life altering experience. But to me that would only mean its a life that is not lived yet.


Its too much of a luxury to spend more than two hours any movie. Of course those could be memorable and worthwhile two hours; but only just so. 

Does one ever mistake an echo for a call? Can you hear my echo?