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.

Morning

Meaningless days pass with wind, the shrill cries of birds in empty trees, the dead leaves echo me.

Afternoon

In a far away country, you sit and remember me sporadically, perhaps. Winter days always end abruptly.

Evening

Violins feed on long silences; I walk into the sunsets alone, blank. Mists await cold still nights.

Long Night

Miles Davis blows his horn. The notes sing of my belabored breath. The candle flickers in starlight.

Knife slicing onions, sharp tears, Lovers declare old-fashioned fidelity till death. Earth just knows seasons change.

I sit outside, band-aided fingers; this air is more transparent than glass. Cicadas confirm in high pitch.

Early Morning

Sleep draining out mind's noise. Dreams drift in and out, hulking ships. Sun is climbing the horizon.

2001:12:07 19:30 Atlanta