Out of a hundred people

those who always know better --fifty-two

doubting every step --nearly all the rest,

glad to lend a hand if it doesn't take too long --as high as forty-nine,

always good because they can't be otherwise --four, well maybe five,

able to admire without envy --eighteen,

suffering illusions induced by fleeting youth --sixty, give or take a few,

not to be taken lightly --forty and four,

living in constant fear of someone or something --seventy-seven,

capable of happiness --twenty-something tops,

harmless singly, savage in crowds --half at least,

cruel when forced by circumstances --better not to know even ballpark figures,

wise after the fact --just a couple more than wise before it,

taking only things from life --thirty (I wish I were wrong),

hunched in pain, no flashlight in the dark --eighty-three sooner or later,

righteous --thirty-five, which is a lot,

righteous and understanding --three,

worthy of compassion --ninety-nine,

mortal -- a hundred out of a hundred. thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

How couldn't have one loved you so! Love is a happening that is beyond will or that is beyond asking, taking or giving. The gulmohars love the fierceness of the summer heat; their love is so deep, that from their sap burst forth blooms of the deepest red. Its as if they have consumed the fiery heat of the sun and are birthing those flowers as offerings of love. This happens when we love, we start to give, for we can't but give without asking, without the words being said. And that makes us pliable, makes us soft and yes makes us vulnerable.

Strange it's only the ones whom we love that can hurt us the most. It's because of this nakedness. And we gather totems of love, we gather prayer flags that make sonorous noises in the mountain wind. And most of all we gather the smooth round stones of memory, from the most trivial to the most profound. These can be of the sound of footfalls of love as you walk around together; the soft murmurs a strange language. Love is the conversations that go on in your head, after the conversations with the one whom you love are done. They seem to say, oh we may have run out of words, but even the silences transfigure into words, those drops of water condensing on fresh green grass. It's an exaggeration, in its intensity and in its reality, the one you love becomes your god, the sacred mysterious deity in a dark sanctum who is coming to life within the space of your arms.

And lounging will come too, for it's the spaces between here and there that are long. Light year is a good unit to measure the scale of these distances. And then when the spaces reduce, when big jets take off, the earth falls behind and you are sitting there wrapped in cotton wool, a gift that will soon be unraveled at the moment you see the eyes that are anxious to see you.

And then there will be tales told, the ecstasies of Majnooh, the words of rapture coming from Romeo's mouth, " A rose by any other name would be as beautiful". Again and again. It's the human spirit that yearns to hear these words. And these words, metamorphose into the dances of Rumi. Hear what he says:

"Oh Beloved, take me. Liberate my soul. Fill me with your love and release me from the two worlds. If I set my heart on anything but you let fire burn me from inside."

Lovers know this unique musk of passion. And like a great bird it travels across one's skies, flying in great V's, suddenly but also not very often. And with it comes the sureness of sprit, the rapture of bliss and a steady peace. Without it all that remains is utter ruin, a tasteless humdrum life, the endless expansion of moments that were too swift and short into something huge bothersome, an anaconda choking the seasons of time. Perhaps trees know something very intimate, something of this substance we seek, we over reach to hear. So do the stars. I once heard a folk tale which said that the stars are all the tears of a great lover, which were thrown up into the sky and froze there as molten gold. And since they are so intimate, have you ever noticed whenever you walk amongst them, the trees, the stars, under a moon, a dusk sky streaked with red you would hear the silent hush, of Love coming to you from all around.

So listen again.

I wake to watch the days wake passing, the mourning trees by the window slits, late sunlight pouring.

I move my ear to listen and imagine, "The name of Ram is the truth" But they don't invoke those funerary chants here.

Maybe this sub lit day should be called Alice, a believer being lowered in a cask Of mahogany, the only permanence it will know.

The fleeting seconds, triple distilled, are invoked within me, it happened even last Night. Souls who die unfulfilled become ghosts.

They say. So I ask now, how does one exorcise them? What are the dark voodoo Secrets I must know? Whisper as you whispered.

The words and the world into me, "I love you", with our tongues entwined. I don't salivate for that anymore, you asked me to

Get out. So as I packed my books and my insecurities, you had already turned your back, the bones of your spine, fine lines of Golden Gate shivering in the Pacific.

Funerals cost twenty five thousand dollars here, so I read. And since I had forgotten to buy insurance, I stand naked. No I am not shameless, I wear clothes and hide it.

Trains are pulling out of the station, sudden faces watch me as lights flash on my face, and last daylight is stealing in on cat paws and around the corner,

A funeral awaits me every evening.

2001:12:14 15:30 Atlanta I wrote this when I awoke at 3.00 pm in the afternoon and saw that theday was ending without my asking.