I am a native of sofa land
the cushions hold
the petty pelf of the pockets
who come out
of the dark caves
when unearthed by
month-end archaeologists
with tight finances.
The velvet fabrics
flog the oval bodies
which were moulded
by the slothy sittings.
Thick pillows form
the cradle of liberty
with some butt perfume
coming out at the crossroads
of division.
— Drunken Wood.
In a cafe
all were there
yet no one was there
everyone lost
in their own way
like Marx’s Alien
or like Durkheim’s
Anomie
no, it’s not a cliche.
lovers lost
in a fight
friends lost
in a laugh
ants lost
in a line
waiters lost
in a table
cats lost
in music
worker bees lost
in 0’s and 1’s
teens lost
in hormones
caffeine and the sugar lost
in the flood of emotions
while I lost
in an apple pie
all eager
to create or
erase memories
except, for a poet
who’s stealing some.
Hello Grass
As a scalar man
with only magnitude
and no direction
I semi-float
on the dewed bodies
with the neurons greened
The face-washed skin
piped up
to the peaches of trees
Arc of happiness bent
to the flavor of Petrichor
Slope of sanguinity bent
to the gliding grasshopper
As the milky sky awaits
to dip
I stand here
to witness the
vacuum between
the breezy breaths.
— Drunken Monk
A lot of social evils, be it racism or patriarchy are closely linked to economic incentives and structures.
Focusing on pure behavioral change or awareness generation is a colossal waste of time and energy.
for any change, shift the attention to economics and profit.
Someone said that
sentiments are prison cells.
As one cannot run away
to a Kantian Noumenonal world
or escape to a Maya temporarily
at least for a minute or so.
Like a satellite
one keeps orbiting around them
funded by latent heat of remorses.
They die only with the dead
and live only with the living.
Nirvana can censor them
but not erase from the drawers
of neurons.
Ultimately we are
what our circuits do
day in and day out.
In this fight club
the member cannot fight.
Revisit old books that you have already read, as you are a completely new person now.
A fresh perspective gives something new from old material
but an aged approach cannot offer anything unique even though it’s a new piece of book.
Every time you notice a shift in perception, it’s the right time to revisit the old knowledge bank.
I could sense
a gravitational wave
amending the space and time
when the village light
hit the edge of Sufi eyes.
An officer crow
orbiting around
and a dutiful horizon
painting the cowboy sky.
Warrior fishes
slaving the chaotic tone
of the river
and the bears
muscling up
to edit the food chains and webs.
Local vegetation
stand like the saints
in the Jain monastery
forever grateful to the origins.
Spiritual air
here
can make
even the emperors
wear robes
and cleanse the bloody history.
Under the load
of wisdom
we miss insights.
Under the load
of solitude
we miss love.
Under the load
of illumination
we miss the now.
Under the load
of driving
we miss moving.
Under the load
of deadlines
we miss the divine.
Under the load
of water
we miss the waves.
—Thus spoke the drunken monk.
Earth in tectonic walking
Pigeons in paragliding
Ants in their pious pilgrimages.
Earphones arrested to
the solitary moods
and introvert chats
of urban-horses.
Station swelling
like a soda can
with time hungry zombies
and pre-mature chuck Taylor all stars.
Sapiens carrying philosopher stones
called iPhones
turning their lives
caged and combed
to baser chords of life.
trains move by
with their somber
easter songs
and carbon noises.
Far from the gaze of the sky
the de-oxygenated fishes
rush up to climb up
and take in the brown gases.
Bags glued to the
shoulder blades
or some anatomical stuff.
up-down
side-side
down-up
is the motion of civic legs
like a troubling tractor
in Smallville.
All rushing to spread
their sticky legs
like a lava
like a snooping state
or some Australorp rooster.
— Drunken escalator.
Either
I have choice-less control
or
control-less choice.
—Drunken Monk.
Thy Vox 