An ocean doesn’t weigh and judge
The one to drown, the one to not.
It simply throws a loaded die
That favours Nature as a whole.
It doesn’t matter who you are.
It matters if you have a plan
To face the fate on every face
Of every ocean’s every die.
It doesn’t matter which you choose.
It matters if you choose at all
To hazard oceans in your path
Or cling to sands of passing time.
He wakes up to the fart of dawn
That crackles through his radio,
Attuned to local FM waves
That scrunch and stretch before they wake.
He takes a while to find his feet,
And then a while to find his socks,
And then a while to slipper on
Before he thup-thups to the roof.
He pulls a hand to shield his eyes,
He puts the other in a bag,
And sifts the seed between the tips
Of kishmish fingers bit by lime.
He hates the birds he daily feeds.
He hates their constant gootergoo.
He hates their carpet-bombing poop.
And yet he spreads the seed around.
He wonders if his nagging wife
Can see him through the cyclone clouds.
I like the ones who tailor cheap.
They planned for fit, not brand for show.
I like the ones without the tie.
They’re dressed for work, not pressed for air.
I like the ones with shabby sleeves.
They roll those up, not hole up cards.
I like the ones with patching thread.
They sew the holes, not throw the shirt.
I like all t-shirts, by the way.
She asks me if I love her yet.
I smile – meaning, “Let you know?”
She smiles – meaning, “Take your time.”
My insides drop the grocery.
Tomorrow is a distant past
From which I did not choose to learn.
And so, tomorrow I will err
As if it were a novelty.
He plays a method actor’s role.
Today, a victim all alone.
Tomorrow, hero on his own.
And equal parts of each, at that.
He sets the story, sets the tone,
To snatch attention – snatch it all.
It matters not how much you give:
It’s always less than he can take.
He has no sense of solid self.
His self is full of bullet holes.
His self is not my self at all,
Though I have many holes myself.
He and I are fractured twins:
Two-faced heads of a two-faced coin.
Again, again, you flip the coin,
Again, again, a drama new
Will siphon your energy pool.
Before long you will feel so drained
You’ll wonder why you feel so drained.
I wrote about my thoughts today
And thought they weren’t any good.
Oh, not the words, the thoughts themselves.
They weren’t good enough to send.
But who am I to label them?
And who’s to say that I’m right?
The thoughts that I reject, despise,
May be the thoughts that someone likes.
Or be the key to someone’s lock
They have been struggling hard to pick.
Remember all the Milnean plays
That pale before a children’s tale.
Remember who decides the fate
Of thoughts that stay and thoughts that fade.
It’s getting difficulter now.
I’m losing all the different strands
Of stories in my itchy head.
I find them broken, fallen out,
At times among the tiny flecks
Of paper shreddings on my scalp.
I find them on my pillowcase.
I find them on my washroom floor.
I find them in the spines of books
Like errant bookmarks on their own.
Perhaps the stress, the age, the soap
Conspire in the dead of day
To tell me time is running fast.
That stories left unnourished long
Do dry up where they once were strong.
It’s tough to write on happy days
With not a thing to rant about.
No cry for help to guise as smack.
No hole inside the soul to fill.
Thank God my happy days are rare.
Replace your eight unhindered hours
Of sleep with shredded wakefulness
Afloat in soupy sleepiness,
Which floods throughout your twenty-four.
Then take your day and place it on
The simmered flames of urgency,
Until your pressured self esteam
Erupts with whistled cries for help.
Then add your seasonings of choice:
Some pestled corns of peppered fear,
Some punctured pods of pungent pain,
Some thickened sauce of blackened shame,
And daily grind of saltiness.
Remember, serve it piping hot.
Or else the burn won’t grip your throat.
No runny eyes, no runny nose
Will ever come of chilled out slurps.
Minakhi Misra 