What on earth do they do there? Ok. You have women, wine, and song? Now is this constantly? You had one woman, you go to another. You can become the playboy of your dreams. Fine. That might work for how long? awhile? OK. I could take that. Then there’s the wine part. We already know that too much wine makes you need to hang around the toilet bowl the next day. Are there toilet bowls in heaven? The song? Well how many really good songs are there? If you are staying there eternally, you’re bound to run out. And who decides which songs will be played? Some angel probably. What if you don’t get along with an angel? Can you request another? They always talk about it being like a garden. Well, I now live a couple of blocks from a huge beautiful public garden. But I’ve gone only a couple of times. Then they say there are lakes. I like a good lake as much as the next guy, but how long can you swim? Is there fishing allowed? Who says how many fish you can catch? The angels, right? I’d rather be near an ocean and surf. I’m sure there are people who would like to ski. So let’s say that it would leave a lot to be desired. But paradise has to be perfect. Everyone is always happy. It’s peaceful. There is no pain. Excellent. Why not just take drugs?
We sit in opposition
Like cars gearing up for a
Game of chicken.
The wind blusters in your
Eyes, your piano voice comes
In crystals. I feel the years
Between us that have
Fallen off, revealing a hard
Skeleton of love in place.
How we try each
Other for fault! Your vanity,
my hands cut off at
The wrist. I have no
Stomach to pick through
These remains again or retrace
Plot points on the map
To here. I see it as a
Happy accident that
We have survived
Together at all,
Certainly not any of my
Doing. Was it the god
Of inertia who intervened,
limited horizons pressing
Were we not brave enough,
and if so,
Has it not taken us down
Was it something else entirely,
A flame of recognition
That held a mutual gaze
And burned everything else
And if it doesn’t come you wait some more,
It is something like fishing
Except you don’t do it in the sun.
It is not exactly pleasant
And it is not exactly unpleasant either
Why you do it
is difficult to answer.
It has something to do with compulsion
Your having to know that you can,
On that day
come up with something
That will definitely surprise you.
So you court the gods gravely and fervently
Because you know that it is not really
You at all who is going to do the work.
It is rather a chorus of Voices somewhere
Inside your nervous system
that will come to visit you,
Bringing with them words as gifts to you,
Which they offer in muffled tones or
In fits and starts, or in lengthier
Instalments that you take down
At your keyboard you hope in the right
You want to receive the message correctly
not mishear it,
And you have to learn to trust that what they tell you
Is in fact the truth because you have no way of verifying
Of course there will be at some point an overseer who
tinkers and censors
A sort of Father Figure editor
Who must get the package wrapped correctly.
But that is the easy part really because the gift is already
or in part.
Later, you and others will determine whether it was
A cheap gift or an expensive one.
You will provide your signature,
The Voices will be relegated to obscurity.
You know in your heart that you are probably
At best, an interceptor,
And the Voices will not be there to either
Confirm or deny it.
He looks like a sweet little immigrant,
a Pakistani boy wading through dirty water.
He smiles a lot on walls and soothes
with his ingratiating manner.
He is said to be charming to breathless women
he meets at natural food counters and less than charming to his underlings.
Known as a pop culture icon, a go-getter, or almost something.
while inside he is:
all emptiness and fury.
He must have hated his mother a lot.
Did she turn the wrong screw?
We can always trace things back to her.
Blaming the woman is the name of the game we love.
Women as punching bags is always a hoot.
She could not be one hundred percent available, perhaps.
She is, after all, the Remote One, the Castratrix.
And this is never agreeable.
Thus she must be remade, beaten into another shape.
Everyone knows that,
Everyone sees that,
Everyone always has.
Sketch the sky
Describe a winter sadness
Your body has fallen to laziness
The air is not your friend
Shut out thoughts that irk the mind
About whatever could have been
That fell thru the cracks of the past
Never to be seen again
Bring rancour up to your face
Look at it squarely in the eye
Watch it steam and have its way
Then spin off to another sky
You are really none of the above
Whether meat or scraps of history
You may be just a dream or a punch line In someone else’s memory.
Dreams never end well.
They leave with a dread at the centre of them
Or grief or insecurity as the main theme.
In the sunlight
dreams are a source of Inspiration
a wild sea
you in the boat
Heroically sailing toward the horizon
The future white and inviting.
In the landscape of snow
Anything is possible.
The dots lay in many directions.
The human print has not yet been
Destiny ,why have you
Let me down?
me and millions like me
Who wake each day to say’ is this all there is?’
Did we not dream loudly enough?
Or are dreams meant to end in shambles
You being playful again?
You are cruellest to those
To whom you grant their wishes.
In the end
They realize its paltriness,
the opposite of gold.
It is perhaps impossible not to dream
But what to tell the young about you?
Write about it.
Write about what?
Find an” it” and write about it.
This is it.
Then what can we say about it?
That it’s here
I can’t see. It’s too dark.
What can we say about the darkness?
And you don’t know where anything is.
And It’s on my shoulder now.
Yes It’s heavy, isn’t it
It’s gone now.
A little light, then?
Yes but it’s still hard to see.
Maybe you need glasses.
Which it is it now?
There is only one it.
Everything is possible in darkness.
It’s too dark to see.