Minakhi Misra

Today my muse has taken leave.
She needs to get her second shot,
Innoculating her against
The viral temptations I’ve got.

She tells me distance, quarantine,
Are vital to my solitude –
The well from which I draw my ink –
I shush her with ingratitude.

She tells me I should mask my words,
To keep my germs from getting out,
Infecting those who’re close to me,
Who chose to be with me throughout.

And yet I whine, complain, protest.
I raise my fists and say I’m free.
“I’m free to do the things I want”
Forgetting I’m a nobody.

Forgetting no one owes me shit.
Forgetting all I get is love.
They give me gifts because they care.
I cannot claim that I deserve.

I can’t keep giving everything
Unless my everything’s renewed.
And so I dip my buckets in
The emptiness of solitude.

It’s easier to say than do.
But easier to do than die.
It all depends on who I am:
Arena man or passerby.

Remember, I have what they have.
The here, the now, the choice to strive.
And nothing else besides the three’s
Necessary to be alive.

Sufficient? Maybe. Maybe not.
Ideal? Maybe. Maybe not.
The here, the now, the choice to strive:
That’s everything I’ve ever got.

You hide the food in ironware.
The rats will find the Way.
You try to trap them in a snare.
The rats will find the Way.

You clog their burrow, fill their hole,
You block their exit, spill petrol,
You light ’em up to kill them whole,
The rats will find the Way.

They nourish on your decadence,
And flourish on your sufferance.
Abhorish in their dominance,
The rats with find the Way.

You’re bound to lose, admit defeat.
Erase your ego, sound retreat.
Become a student at their feet:
The rats will find the Way.

An eagle landed on a branch.
A jasmine fell into my tea.
I shooed the bird away at once.
I let the drowning blossom be.

A lizard scurried up my leg.
I panicked, spilling all the tea.
The reptile, scalded, screamed away.
The jasmine witnessed silently.

I did my best, I put my all.
I did not get results I sought.
Is this success? Or did I fail?

I did not do the best I could.
I got results regardless, though.
Is this success? Or did I fail?

If I’m the only one to say
Whether success or failure came,
What if I call it all success?

Is that allowed? Who gets to say?
“Successful”, claims media
Whoever brings them eyeballs new.

Of course, there is a pleasure too
In bringing down “successful” folk.
The eyeballs love the guillotine.

I cannot find a moment still
To sit, to breathe, to write a bit.
I’ve failed to do my job today.
I didn’t protect my time and space.

I did not distance from my mind
Distractions I could do without.
I let the non-essentials
Invade my sanctum sanctorum.

The price is hurried, tasteless lunch.
The price is hurried, tasteless lines.
The price is hurried, tasteless fights
With loving people in my life.

I pray I get another day
Where I don’t act so cast away.

I have applied by email, see?
“Requesting your permission, Ma’am,
To make a Dent in Universe.”
They take a while, I have been told.

Their toll-free number’s not so good.
They play a holding message, see?
They tell you ’bout these other things
That you could do to pass the time.

They tell you clocks are missing cogs.
They tell you you’re the perfect fit.
They tell you you can be the one
Who helps the millions keep their time.

Of course, it’s meaningful and right.
Of course, you make a difference there.
And maybe you should take it up,
Forgetting why you called their desk.

It ain’t for me, though, honestly.
You see, I sent that email, yes?
It’s not to get their go-ahead.
It’s just the cover for my ass.

I’m throwing hammers already.
I throw them daily folded blind.
A few too short, a few too long.
A few too light to be so strong.

But throw I do, and you can too.
And we don’t need permission, see?
We always have those cogless clocks
To fit into in times of need.

And maybe we can steal someday
The pendulum that sways our fate.
And throw it like Olympian cogs:
Around, around, and (ughff) away!

There’s nothing wrong in “coming third”
Unless you’re playing 2P games.

There’s nothing wrong in “sweating it”
Unless you’re in a house on flames.

There’s nothing wrong in “splitting hairs”
Unless you’re grooming moustaches.

There’s nothing wrong in “taking time”
Unless you’re snatching wristwatches.

Your writin’s gettin’ pretty SAFE!
Your hittin’s nosso HARD.
Your anger’s gotten WHINY, dude.
It doesn’t got the POWER!

All your talk of makin’ ART,
All your rhymes – so CRINGE!
All FORGOTTEN in a day
After a MOVIE binge.

You call yourself a BIZNISS grad?
You got no bizniss sense.
You’re givin’ me this stuff for FREE!
So, lemme give two-cents.

You getchyour ASS outtadachair.
Go STICK it on a grill.
Without the FIRE under you,
You’ll NEVER learn the drill.

You gotta make some MONEY, man!
You gotta SELL your art.
If all you do is “air your thoughts”,
You’re nothin’ but a FART.

I take your art FOR GRANTED, bro!
I’ve grown so USED to it.
So, commuh, now. ‘salready TIME!
You’ve GOTTA drop this shit.

INNUFFA this. Come WORK for me.
I’ll give you DOUGH, you FEEL?
I CAN not give you HAFFADIME
If all’s you’s HAFFAREAL!

Yo, WHAT is that? You got some BALLS?
Then, ALLDABEST, you punk!
Go, paintchyor COFFIN blackenwhite!
And stick it witchyor JUNK!

I suffer from a new dis-ease:
Adolescent defeatism.
The daily loss of something small
Is breaking down my confidence
Of ever risking much at all.

I gave up grapes of sweet success,
Instead to drink up daily asp.
Hormesis! Please, do grant me strength
To bear the poisons of defeat.

Embracing loss with heart and soul
Is killing killer instincts that
Could help me cut through obstacles.

I blame, instead, and shame myself.
I call myself a “Loser”, “Done”.

I shudder at the thought of work.