Take away selfishness,
and most of the American Dream flattens
into the cinema-real backdrop
against which Boomers matured.

Our grand parents were the last
of the pioneers,
or first
of the labor class immigrants
to be specialized
for urban labor roles, selling ordinary sweat
of the brow for wages
of sin born iniquity jobs.


When all people
on the planet think little
of groupthink effects, one devises effectual,
fervent effort to make wares worth a nickle, or a dime,

or a penny's worth, back when pennies did buy baked wares…

bread of life's basic daily grind,

fundamental bottom mind, superfluous
to say bottom most, basest
ideal standard ration
measured common rationality
built line upon line, letter by letter, plain
let the message be itself the messenger
kind of sapience marking our species
as soil comprised complexities,

which wax old in no time at all, at the end,

the far end, hoary head and toddering gait, sitting,
face to the sun on a April morning,
in a trough between tumbled granite waves, decomposing.

In this position, suppose-edly
my Truth's only ever once
told
upon a time, out past here and now…

I sit, thinking,
reifying realized right thinking, balanced,
recollecting all yester-was
incidents we all pass
as one's own life
time wise
necessary
organic carbon scaffolding - and memories.

A smile,
a suggestion in a word,
a subtle shift on a face,
you see,
you knew what I mean.

A wink, not what you think.

Come let us make a day, imagine,
today, only the good we do gets done,
within the reach of any doing penance.

So, the word of the master, whence
cometh all the wisdom ever we use,
cometh to all, save those brought up

in the school of the prophets Saul danced with

-- the difficult concept, knowledge da'leth,
dabar
רִיב Hebrew reeb, a controversy, point
of contention, an argue-premise point…

Proud child memorizer, reared
to be the reader aloud, raised
to be the reteller reselling past prophecies,

pointed promises perceptible now, as later,
still, the end must come,

the truth itself shall be seen as shown,
to be observed, reverent, wary, watching

all the mobs of mankind been scattered
to and fro, from island to island,
since ever was a story we be in.

Today, 2025 by the church told time, since
the message from the spirit of truth, per se.

Wait, after activation, spirit of curiousity, feel

whatifery, reification risen conception, breath
whispering, really listening,

here's the time, as it ever was,
here's the day, as it ever is,


make do.

I engraved her name on the picnic table
Then I engraved the stone over her grave
I engraved the memory of her face on my heart
I engraved the words on the walls of  my prayers
Then out of desparation I engraved her memory in poem

Cast thy nostril to the air
To sense the magnitude of change,
What was then is now no more,
The atoms, rearranged.

Touch thy fingertips to life
To feel, as difference lingers there,
For what was smooth and sensuous
Now calloused, in abrasive air.

Know, that in a passaged time
The trickled sands invert their flow,
For what was once a comfort stop
Becomes an unsafe place to go.

Skill, once held in high repute
No longer wields the mantle now,
Torn the chaliced riches, worn...
Gone, the wealth of sacred cow.

Vast, the might of new elite
Emergent in its chosen time
Fallen, now the vanquished
In the tragic wayside, left behind.

Gone, is the old world
In its jaded coat of faded charm,
Reshuffled, to obscurity
Whilst surging new blood, fast rearm.

Where once, there stood a working forge
Which fashioned mighty wheels of steel,
Now shifts, a field of windblown wheat
Which cares not, one jot, what you feel?

[email protected]

We climb the Koro hill.

Forty years and still ascending
gives a good feel.

We stand under a Madhuca tree
blossoming in March heat and rain.

From the hilltop
the valley down below
looks dreamy grey.

We've greyed and graded
past full bloom.

In the wafting fragrance of Madhuca
we pray to hold on
for some more.

I haven't seen her in years.

Maybe she's still there
when the tide rises
foraging in the river
dreaming in half moon
they meet their fate
floating into her net.

With the tide ebbing
maybe she's still hugging the shore
praying for a little more
till the stars blink weary
waiting for her to go home.

Is she still there
her skin smeared with mud
stalking like a night heron
silhouetted against the skylight
her feet kissing the riverbed
her bed lonely and cold.

I wonder why for me
she's so mysterious
a predator in the river
a foresaker of life
for the life of her
brewing a love
deeper than I've ever known.

In my eye's river
she's still there.

Age cannot catch up with her.

This thought has always haunted me.

People you meet once
and never again in your life.

You have a static picture in your mind
of their face
the small conversation
their little story they tell you
the place you met them
in a bus, a shop, on the road
interactions not long
but meaningfully small
yet leaving a memory in you.

I think of all those people
I stopped by to ask for time
seek direction of my destination
or asking where I might find
food or a resting place
in an unfamiliar area.

Once and just once you meet them.

On a summer trip, I was looking for icecream
in a strange place off the highway
walked ten minutes to find a shop
where for that brief encounter
the seller made me feel like
he had known me for long
shared the history of that area
the migration and culture of the residents
before helping me with the right icecream.

Sometimes I wonder
if they would have enriched my life
were they part of my association.

Not scholars, not rich, but simple men
who bring you down to earth
and carve a space in your mindscape.

Sadly you meet them once in your life.

I feel it's so designed.