The Production Line, The Artist and, The Fabric of Love

 
 
She looked at him and averted her eyes. She was a rhythm, he was a base. In they went and made love for the night. She looked at him and he looked at her. Their eyes searching for an answer in each other. In they went and made love for the night. In hope was the bed unmade, in the light did the sheet fly away on the floor, in signs were they locked in an embrace. She looked at the ceiling, he looked at the fan. In they went and made love for the night. When morning happened, love stayed in their embrace.

Come talk to me. Do not marry him. I’m here.” He said a few week ago when she had told him, “I don’t want to marry him. If I don’t like in the beginning I will run away.”

Till that day they had never spoken so privately, so personal. They lived next to each other but never spoke except for a few times and that too in a distant manner. She was a lively chirp, he was a perched owl. She was a forest, he was a tree. In they went and made love for the night.

In this very manner, they stretched their nights, took off their minds and stayed with each other. The night never passed, it stayed with them as if it was called from the heaven to protect them. In they went and made love for the night.

The morning comes. It comes and it breaks the spells. The night flies away. Out they go and seek love for the day. In a factory, she pulls her might and draws a smile to look over the work of twenty women under her. They check the jeans and look for signs of slipping thread on the fabric. They pack them in boxes and off they go in a cargo to places unknown. She looks at the computer and waits desperately, as the bills are produced from the machine one by one so that the sound of it would stop in time. The morning is there and her heart fails to pull a smile for each who are going out for their lunch. “I do not like him. I will run away in few months,” she remembers her words each day and yet they mean nothing now. The morning came and it stripped away each letter and stitched them on the jeans as if telling her that she belonged here and not to him.

Out they went and sought love for the day. In a home, he cooks the afternoon meal and waters the plants. In time the children arrive from school and he attends them to sharpen their skills in reading. They go away to their homes and he picks the pen to write a song unknown. To whom do I sign this that the threads slipping away are picked in time. He looks at the pages and watches as they come out in desperation to live. To make the seconds count as he sits and remembers the words spoken, “Come talk to me. Do not marry him. I am here.” Each letter now means something but they are as empty as his days. Are they numbered, he questions and fades away into dismal existence.

Out they went and sought love for the day. The night arrived. They embraced each other. In they went and made love for the night. The factory, the jeans, the children, the pages—they are holding time of each morning.
 

Heart Does Not Know How to Pray

 
 

seized by your eternal return
I walked steadily on foot to see your world

in leaves that danced at first
and on faces that blurred in light of your magic

I kept walking in your delusion
until the illusion of reason came to haunt me

I heaved not knowing the feathery weight in my chest
that it was a pain of many souls who knew the chains
of law, society and formulaic finesse held up
for the mirage of happiness artificial
and so it is now that you are not here
that life is made from chapters of despair
and so it is now that I know the days of abyss
keep me away from death that would be a release
from the law, society and formulaic finesse at last
that I simply fail, fail and fail not knowing how to live this life
when science has gone so far to erase emotions of gut when
knowledge has multiplied in disarrayed formations of chunks
leaving behind nothing but a vast emptiness of information theatre

that I lie as a cold sack of sour and rotten wheat
in a country town shadowed by the father peasant
who in time became a cold miser leaving the shovel
embracing the guttural life of plastics and machines
who in time has never changed his simple necessities for life
who never scaled up for a societal ladder of appearance and wealth
what is it that made him cold enough to not feel emotions of family
is it the vulgar economic ride of industrial laissez-faire
that destroyed a peasant destroying the family in return
for bitter bondage in service and trade or is it the anarchic
yet still nature of this land that never goes awry for faces plural
that heart does not know how to pray to gather a bit of your magic
left in the debris of tradition and modernity?

 
 

Soul Suffering



Our lives turned against each other even when we lived under one roof. We were like two trains running on different tracks with one destination in our minds. The destination was called death. How does one get the strength to live if each day is remembrance–of surviving time, death and life? 
Our lives were disciplined once upon a time, but the baggage of living made our crawling heavier upon this earth.
 
 

 

Where I live

  


These faces and bodies multiply each year
In their eyes I look for a sense of home
 
I join them and the question
Is crushed under our feet

I then observe them from a distance
that is near and far as I hold my feet around them

We hear stories in silence
That a home we have been creating for a long time
That a home is complete with bare bones

We now are near to it as our memories re-thread
Roots that made us anxious and guilty in bounds of values aeonian

We wait for families to fill homes in light and delight
We stretch our hands of time, in time.
 


 

 

The Play of Time

When it is seen, sensed and explored

It melts our hearts
Joy is such a thing
It releases burdens of all kind at once
And never lets you
Down
It is a thing “for a while,”
A gift of the wind to move against the reality

 

When Listening


 
Our minds walk on numbers

Lest a month of deficit money arrives
 
Our hearts mingle in words
And always it is the case
 
Until our feet, our stomach, our head
Are made to run for constant stability
 

Lest roofless, foodless, joyless anxiety arrives.