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.