when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the

nth  

reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,
when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...

words conveyed with a mutual clarity parity for communication
will end only when the world ends first
and the communitas is no more,and words, exist purposelessly  
for there is no left with whom to communicate, precisely

but now, of this moment,
write words, sentences multiplied but circumscribed,
verses with mystical aura,
whose utility so suspect and multiple meanings hidden within,
taken by you for the specific utility you uncover and create

ah, to write of things clearly visible to all,
but possessed differently, by each reader, this is the greatest commonsensical commonwealth useful
for and of humans indexed by unique word tendons tenderly

when this passes, when literature no longer
can be messengered to 127 Persian provinces,
each the message same,
yet given up in 127 different languages^

when you understand my poems perfectly then,
their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the nth reinterpretation,
a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
being pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a lives paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last



p.s. Pradip, be careful what you wish for....a poet false...


9:15am  April 3, 2019

God stares at the lamb nailed to our door like an art exhibit.

Stroking his chin. Nodding. Moving to the next.



Let me gag on dirt you dug up from an old grave,

eyes full of re-purposed blood

and smiling like a thief hearing sirens drive off in the wrong direction

Let me fall like the statue of an overthrown dictator,

the people innately understanding that they are witnessing

the dawn of a new holiday

as my row of crooked teeth gets straightened by the concrete



I am writhing on the ground

and a crowd is gathering

and I tell them that everything is fine

and they don’t believe me

but they don’t do anything to stop me either



I want to chain every bit of decay in me

to a television tuned to static

and stand up from my foxhole.

I want a dead raven nailed through my heart.

I want the world to wipe the sweat from its brow

and put me back where I belong.



Just get on with it.

Stop putting it off.

Finally and forever buried under all the dust I’ve been gathering.