silence ?

words threaten to consume me,
goading, teasing, twisting, snaring.
i sleep dreaming of words,
noise and disquiet.
my mind chattering,
i sink gibbering
and feverish
like a madman
beyond hope or succour,
looking
for some quiet.

rebirth

in the dark, under the stars and the sea in front. i close my eyes and feel them crash all around. surround sound. bose got nothing on this. it is, supposedly, called white noise, and i could spend an eternity listening to it. the waves rush, and break themselves apart, only to come back again. an eternal dance. the white foam and the dark waters. its an alien world, and i am in it. a million pin pricks above and the vastness before. no traffic jams, no snarls or inane laughs. no people. just the water the sky and me.

i close my eyes and drown in the sound, drown out the world. i am alien no more, this is me. i am the water raging, and breaking up and coming back to life. this is me, i am the many stars, shining down, eyes in the sky. this is me, the vastness. my head is full of a salty pungence. i inhale deep. my soul drinks it all up, restitution and healing from the dust and grime of life. life? that other pitiful excuse for one. thats alien to me now.

this is my moment. a moment stretcing across forever. buddha had his tree. i have my beach.

it wasnt your ajji

You say something. I say something. We'll collaborate.

oh, that dried up,

crone.
that wandered the streets of my youth.

what i was doing watching a crone,
when i was young,

i wish i knew.
but the dirty brown sway of her skirt that peeked under a sari.
would not be denied.

it was my first brown,
and not one i am like to forget,
rapt I looked on,
until

i tripped and fell
and looked on more brown
pushing up against my face.
all the world is hued these days
with the dying tint of a withered tree.

my mouth full of dust and some blood,
my face pink with shame.
but my ears,
ah they were full of sweet silver laughter

a brighter hue of sepia maybe, but definitely not pink.

but the laughter, tinkled on,
drawing me
i decided on the sepia,
and looked up

to hear.
i've robbed cradles in my time but not
one as sweet as yours. i'll have to let you go,
as i am now a consummate tease.

i looked on
my mouth and my mind agape,
where her skin was withered before,
i now saw a woman,
my first smile, now turning
away.

with unwonted diffidence,
i essayed a glimpse at a peek of brown
and longed for a withered crone

naya

face it,
its new,
interface,
its new.
wot say ?

a rant for you bill

calvin is six years old. and he has a stuffed tiger for a toy. only he imagines him to be real, kicking and alive. and the strip is about them. and you'd think that it was that simple.i come across phenomenal idiots who look at calvin and see a six year old, 'how cute'.

in the quiet words of the virgin mary, come again ?

which six year would talk about the permanance of his snow art inviting the user to contemplate on the intransigence of life ? and which stuffed tiger remarks about philistines on the sidewalk ?

my people. calvin is not a boy. he is a philospher never taken seriously. he is the avant garde. he is that fellow that screams in your face things that you wouldnt talk about loud. he is outside most of the biases that make us grown and those that fashion our culture and society. being beyond it all, he is dynamic quality, that is at the heart of new ideas and changing paradigms. and hobbes is the anchor. ever the paragon of good sense, he is there to counterweigh everything that calvin says against the harsh demands of a very real world.

everytime i read calvin, its magic. words fail me. i see profundity unfold in a few suqares before me.

staind

i am staind, tainted.
where went the spotless white,
that i once so coveted.

i crave for a single color,
of milky cleaness,
of undending purity,
of a landscape of soul searing brilliance.

i look,
i seek,
and my eyes hurt,
all i see is gray.

its been a while,
since i last beheld the white,
the white that i once so coveted.

wonts

i aint giving up,
i am going to read,
and i am going to write,
i am going to think,
parcelling my emotions
just right.

fading

he looked down at his watch, and screwed his face. she was going to scream at him again. he debated lingering on, just to spite her. damn her! damn it all! he bent and collected his shoes, dusted the sand out, and turned to leave.

colors.

it was a child with balloons. a rag-picker child with some colorful balloons. those are very pretty balloons for you girl, he thought, and he was ashamed. when did i become such an asshole ? the light was fading fast, and he better get home.

and the last light of the evening fell on the child's face for an instant. she was gazing up at the balloons that she held in her tiny hands.

it hit him. one of those moments that he never seemed to have words for. one of those, when nothing else existed. right now, it threatened to overwhelm him. he stood there, his heart doing a jackhammer's dance in his chest. he recogonised that ... that look.

and just as quickly it was gone, leaving him gaping at an empty beach. it was too dark now. he couldnt see the kid anymore. his mouth had gone dry. swallowing, he turned home.

she used to look at him like that. she never looked at him like that anymore. suddenly he felt cold. very cold and lonely.

where had it gone ? where had it all gone ? what was he going to do ? he started walking faster.

what am i to do ?

O progress !
thou hast made available the antibiotic,
as have you the tall building,
as have you the hope against malaria.
hope against a hard rain,
with a roof over my head.

made available the smoking factories,
and the spilling filth.
made available the vehicle,
and the noxious fumes.
made available the life saver,
with quick transportation.

should i want the one
and not the other ?
knowing full well,
that you are wont to give,
give both,
each in its own abundance ?

A dedication.

give in

dark dark mocha,
a silver of cream,
is this a dream ?

iced caramel macchiato,
a dollop of cream.
and frosted strawberries.

sweet as sin,
hot as a tart.

food or love ?

the fan fiction rant.

heh ! robin hobb is a she. no really, check out wiki on hobb, it had a woman's picture in it. and i thought the name sounded male.

right .

no this post aint about which of the hobb family chromosome pair dominated, its this - a rant. robin hobb's bile on why she doesnt dig fan fiction. she's got some very pertinent and sound points on rhetoric and writing a story. your own story. yeah, stop reading this and read her rant. she does it much better.

psst ! i got to get me a hold of her trilogy's. after the song of ice and fire, i want more, more big stories.