The cloud is castrated ram
With a bell around its neck.
Trending is towards no rain
With no cotton our farmers
Could bring out,only death.
Deaths are fine bell weather
In electric fans and rail track,
Weather’s trending in twitter
With hashtag #dying of debt.
We meet at the green hotel lounge
Over cups of coffee and small talk.
We throw around perfect postures
Like a match struck and candle lit.
Our postures are vague in daylight,
Silhouttes standing out as in dusk.
There is moisture in the air, a cave.
Will a match strike a phosphorous
And a candle lit for man and wife?
Heaven’s accountant there
Keeps tally of small credits
Adding up to a big balance
For our place in dance hall.
We have to build our credits
And save karma for a place
Where classical girls dance.
We have big bills in pockets,
No small change for beggars
To build our afterlife credits.
We have no afterlife culture.
We have differences with mites.
We don’t like them in our books,
Or in geography maps on skins.
Books are old with Alzheimer’s.
Their minds are Einstein- sharp .
But books forget who they are.
We worry they unbolt the door
And walk away from their sleep.
Back when there were horses
Before their carts, there were
Horseshoes for luck in school
With no homework on backs .
The horses have since bolted
To the Himalayas where they
Now climb us to phallic gods.
We are spared the ignominy
Of putting cart before horse.
Our wishes have not stopped
The equine run even for a day.
Mom’s guru had vanished behind
A custom warehouse,her mantra
Left in mom’s ears above waters.
Disciple has since entered soul
Of mango tree whose leaves are
Fluttering like birds in mild wind.
Wind must be fluttering mantra
Left behind in my mother’s ears
Now operating below the waters.
I will look in the very first eyes
Of round black faced god away
From white faced brother god.
Be there my witness, Krishna,
All the while over the coconuts
In my passing blue sky of a car.
Now I imagine the sea surging
Behind them that brings crabs
For the Sunday bazaar’s eating.
Let the lotus boulder not drop
From our god’s dizzy heights
And lotus stones not fall apart
But be held by an iron scaffold
With bare bodied men hung on
A fate they cannot think away.
(Re-living the memory of a journey to Jagannath temple in Puri)