The time is nearing to leave.
File – save as – give a name
And it becomes a part
Of my documents
Hidden behind a password
Which I only know.
In the recesses of my hard disks
C:\ My documents\ Kottayam, or-
Some other name that I decline
To tell you.
Later, in a lonely night
I will access the file
And glance through it
At random.
This flower, that face
This light that flicker in the darkness
I strain at the cords
by which you’ve bound me.
Bodily I am yours.
You want more.
You want the great blooming
welts to point the way to a love that claims all.
With coffeehot soothing hands
you take as much as you can
and give me everything I need.
You give me your darkness, your darkest,
mysteriously proud I can take it
and transform it into starbursts.
How can this miracle be?
In place of a gnawing blankness
there is now the wriggling of joyous worms entwined.
View is free of early birds and full of nightbloomed flowers;
Twigs are what I call them
Wrapping me in embrace
My cell grows flowers
My cell grows fur
Green flowers for me
Green fur by the sea
And almost everywhere am I blue
Top to bottom
I'll never wake up
Coma but a light sleeper
They call me mother
And treat me like the dogs they
Themselves
Bark at.
Hiding was something I remained good at
For years afterwards, I would hide
From the things that I feared
And from the things that feared me
My spirit was on lockdown, and I
Kept the parts of myself hidden
That I was terrified the world would see
But truth is a flower that takes root quite well
In the darkest of places, and with the
Virtue of patience it waits for
The gleam of someone's eye
To make it bloom
You cannot smother my truth without my consent
And you
Quite plainly
No longer
The flower is like the sun, brightening up my day.
The weed is like the dark, not knowing where you are.
The flower is like the stars, sparkling bright
The weeds are like the moon, with only one good side.
The flower as beautiful as a diamond
The weeds as big as a crystal rock.
The flower petals are like a fragile child
The weed's are like your father's unshavened face.
The flower is like a numph with gleaming hair
It flows along with the wind here, there and everywhere.
The flower bows like the eighth wonder in ones who seek upon it.
The weed grows through the concrete path unable to touch the sky. It's pushed and shoved and somehow it survives.
My eyes feast upon the flower
But heart goes to the weed.
I think I go into abstraction
when the form is plain
when the flower is to flower
and wood makes wood
I am joined to a walk
or aimlessly
tuned to the sting
of a saw's thrust
Time's wings
have turned
into
scattered feathers
letters
forgotten
unwritten
the grass
now green
with rain
drops this
year's
flowers
against the
window.sight
changed eyes
Sound and beat swell
funnel of space
dragged in earth
planes eddy, the shaking
cold, fish jump the horizon
slats factory colors
we realize a finish
there is a tower a
vast dome
a dining car there
a sliding seats
sloped down
the girders truckload of stationwagons
a few benches at the sea
or hens crated
traffic island
If there were another world: orange skies and
purple flowers; tall languorous women
waiting behind the bouganvillias, each with her own dark voice
to send those low calls toward the night;
and huge birds, bigger than ponies.
soaring through the crimson skies; with bloodstone plumage
and shadowy wings making windstorms as they passed.
and a soft succulent silence,
and the low drifting calls of tall women,
waiting behind the lattices; and piles of oranges in the
streetstalls, piled higher than the houses,
mangoes, melons, pineapples: all the sweet clear acid orange;
and coconuts, and rich dark beer;
canaries, mockingbirds and parrots jangling in the patio;
For me/ even for me
Who cant say a word to them;
there is, wherever I stand
a woman, in front of me
even a violet, or a bunch of ants is, for me. (I conspire with them)
and I touch her, my
hand a bamboo rake.
in a forever eternity
of now and no
instead of
later and yes
make me a green one
who will never be made
sad
for flowers
floating by dead seagulls,
of blue floating to france,
or purple in a green cathedral,
or....
just make me/
and they cried and giggled
with their arms
hanging out of tubs
In the face of the full moon
the morning glory closes its door.