[A]

Parallels

Euclid’s Axiom:
	Parallel lines don’t 
             intersect 
      except at infinity.

False! False again!
	Soft kisses under  fall
	          foliage
	 remembered today tell 
	
Me, how we met impossibly once.
     Two parallel lines again
                        stretching
	into the blue infinities.
[B]

Unlangauged

I will become unlangauged
	     Like the birds
The insistent fluttering of 
	     whose wings
The  high pitch of  raucous
	    Bird love song
In sparse snow armored trees 
	  (You walk under)
And fill up the wintry silences
		Of my grief.
[C]

Black

Black: the color of soot
	ascendant of lights
		extinguished.
 
Black: the night I fight 
	   with puny fires
		raging tears.
 
Black: the color you liked to
	  wear; the antimony in
	       your unloving eyes 

Black: the blackness of this memory
	         I hold to write about
				Black
-----------------------------------------------
2001:12:20 02:30 Atlanta

Wrote these poems, on an Ethanol high.


My Poems

Here landscape has turned jade, and in general attire has become shorter. I too wear shorts occasionally, and occasionally eat American. Not often.

In my dreams, there hangs a gulmohar bleeding crimson. In my dreams, I still row a boat in rivers of dirt covered men. As for gunfire, today's news carried enough.

Fashion, that I don't know. Which shows now top the charts, that I don't know too. In the weave of days and nights I prowl, rattling the cage. I etch my words on silences.

Exile is a evocative mask. I have frequented its use in the streets of red light districts. There eyes line up every night to catch a ferry to this land in a fair exchange of flesh for cash.

Today rain imprisons the sky in steely bars of water as swollen time attempts a closure of wounds that bloom rabidly. Everywhere your ghostly kisses still pierce my skin, like rusted acupuncture needles which now cause pain.

I take long walks in wild grass, and carry home clothes burnished with scattered seed. Scattered too is "Myself" after I set out on drifting continents. Sometimes I measure my waist, and sometimes I measure my forgetting like this.

2002:04:21 23:30 Atlanta

Note: While this clearly is a non-poem, it still contains, I think, an element of truth as seen through the eyes of a still new exile.