Super Reality

If this terrain of light could all condense into a single particle
radiating beyond the borders of the senses
and every photon is an event, a loved one, a physical fragment, a missed opportunity, or an insignificant place that you appropriate
then there will be no distance, no missing
and every event will be rubbing shoulders with your destiny, so there will be no regrets
anything possible, so there will be no dreams and no guilt
and all the loved ones fused together, so love diffuses to the point of annihilation
and the past is skin close to the future, so there will be no memory, and no anticipation

and without missing, without regrets, without love and without memory
there will be no passion, and sex will no longer exist

if this wet and hazy terrain of matter condenses into a single, suffocatingly beautiful grain
just short of being a black hole
then the split fragments of consciousness will collapse back into each other
like a middle-aged man migrating back into his mother’s womb
and the mother suddenly turning younger, in white gown, horny and shy
only then
the supernatural will disappear, and the logical becomes funny,
the metaphysical becomes boring
curiosity and meditation become pointless
thoughts a waste of time
and words become, well, Ha-Ha

In this bliss of continuity and desensitization
there only exists a super-reality,
a very well informed numbness
Like ageless photons, we never age
and live a new set of non-emotions
addicted to fusion
our sole aim is becoming one-er and one-er
denser and denser
until the limits of infinity
until it all becomes white background noise.

Birthday Poem 08

I practiced solitude
befriended boredom
perfected the art of being aloof, even among people
and the science of being on my own
I came to no conclusion
It’s too early..

I observed affection
tried to understand love
and gained the great skill of indifference
to being in or out of it
it seemed like an enemy at times
or at best an impossibility
But then again I came to no conclusion
and until then,
I'll live with universal love
the love of oneself
solitude or alienation
They all seem interchangeable..

I co-existed with constant doubt
incessant skepticism
We match beautifully
and have a convenient affair..
Like a very efficient osmosis, or an elegant dance
Our love and hate affair transcends geography, time, air and soil..

And beyond that, there are the usual tools of the trade
a pungent Masala of near-madness, fully-fledged nostalgia, and bleached future
Consequently
I came to a conclusion
I will dump all those friends, enemies and lovers
and it will be a beautiful year…

Untitled

The train proceeded slowly, against a background of brick and white buildings and neons on stand-by. I held my mind somewhere between vanishing in my daydreams and observing the reality in front of me. It seems that vanishing and observing are complementary, your mind needs both. It's part of constructing a personalized version of reality, some form of osmosis between your consciousness and the stimulants in the world around it. Thus, I really do not know whether the buildings were -actually- brick and white; it could be true, but it could also be locational confusion. I also do not know if the attached sensory memory -fresh air- is actually fresh spring air (from a heavily polluted city), or fresh air-conditioning. I did juxtapose the imagery of Neons and mini-LCD displays with voice-over onto the picture. These things existed for sure, so I feel no remorse implanting them. It gives me a sense of concreteness, some form of evidence.

I cannot remember the purpose of my journey, or the names of specific train stations. It's all blank. I can only remember, vividly, my impressions on human beings. The air inside the cubicle was saturated with urban train staples: self-conscious abandon,hollow gazes that still register, wary curiosity,and all the oxymorons one would expect from a species whose strict evolutionary economics have turned irremediably dualistic.

I'm looking at the LCD screen, following the trajectory of stations. I don't really care about the destination or else I would have remembered it. I'm sensing time, with an internal clock, counting time intervals between stations. I don't think I care about time itself, I just care about minimizing its unbearable weight. It feels like it's enriched with nitrogen, nitroxides, mercury, multi-carbon, and other heavy chemicals that assault my organism. I'm sensing a certain joy combined with void: the joy and lightness of being in density, in the monotony of changing stimulants, and the void of their intensity. The joy of being a complete stranger, a gaijin, an outsider, an extrinsic entity, an alien, all these words suddenly seem nice. I came back home to belong and suddenly all I daydream about is detachment...

Fresh Poetry: Shepherd

It was the early hours of morning
A lonely shepherd and a herd of docile beasts

He could hear the yawns of the grass
and the travel of semi-ice molecules in air
He could inhale transitory ice,
Grab it from its trajectory,
Through his lips and onto his canines
It’s fine
It’s pure, docile entertainment

On that specific morning
Well really in any other morning
Silence was an excuse
A kind of way of doing
Of herding
A well preserved and transmitted craft

Forget the herd
There was this fleeting molecule of air
Transparent, but still he knew it was mischievous
It traveled in its own nonsensical dance
And he followed it
Partially, attentively, with resignation
A recent sense of non-being
Without being annihilated

Anyway there will always be molecules of air
And they will swirl, along with detached grass in the winds
That carry them altogether
In one significant batch…

Fresh Poetry: Alien Registration

It couldn't bother me to wait in neon-lit rooms
with aliens waiting for alien registration
a mini-Babylon of non-compulsory silence

I could just traverse this opacity, for it's all already been seen

They could disappear
and the fade white lights could amalgam with fade white grounds
and everything fades with the murmurs of the little policemen
murmuring exotic passport names

I am barely desensitized, but it is the habit
We lose the habit of being home,
the courage of abandon
and the possibility of irrational joy

Still I can see all these aliens leave one after the other
and in the gaps between the empty blue chairs
see valleys I can wander in
For in the valleys of your hands lies my true country
and in the strata of your skin
lies my real home