A Fob Guru Speaks Out

Border's Reading

2010-07-13T23:41:00.000-05:00

I went to a poetry open mic at Border's bookstore today off Alabama and Kirby to support a friend of mine who was reading there. I wasn't the only one. Half of the VIP team met me there, and I was pleasantly surprised to see Marcel and his girlfriend.

The event is run every second Tuesday, I believe by a man called Ken Jones. He's a little intimidating, but very nice. Teaches a creative writing class at the Art Institute over the summer, and he has that professor air about him. I'm guessing he teaches during the regular school year too. Anyway, he hosts the Reading Series, and it's quite a nice turnout.

I'm not getting to the point. The point is this: it's refreshing to see poets outside of the slam community. I'm completely inspired to write more, knowing that there's a world outside of scores, judges, and egos.

Driest American Humor....

2010-06-23T14:54:00.000-05:00

is always in the reviews section of webpages on stores, makeup products etc. This review was for the Best Buy in the Galleria area. Made my day.

http://www.yelp.com/biz/best-buy-houston-2

Brave New Voices

2010-06-23T14:46:00.000-05:00

Showing Season 1 to my summer school kids tomorrow. Hopefully it will spur interest and we will have new recruits for MetaFour.

Vocal Nodes, MetaFour, Houston VIP Grandslam Tonight!

2010-03-27T15:53:00.000-05:00

So, it's been a minute. Many of you (aka the handful of people that read this blog) have been wondering where I've been. It's simple: life moves at break neck speeds. I, too afraid of neck trauma, have been sprinting a little bit faster than life itself, trying to stay ahead.

In early August last year, I came down with laryngitis. This may seem normal for a teacher, but I continued to speak on my swollen vocal chords and developed nodes or nodules on them. These are also fairly common: a lot of ministers, cheerleaders and teachers develop vocal nodes. Being a miser, I didn't go to the doctor till December, where I found out they had taken residence and refused to budge. Their immediate verdict was: no singing, no poetry, no speaking beyond what you have to until the calluses soften and disappear.

I've been in and out of the doctor's office and been in speech/vocal therapy for months now. It's a long and seemingly unrewarding process. I can't sing along to the radio, so I've invented this speak-along system when a song I like pops up. This may seem like I'm venting, but I've learned to enjoy the smaller blessings in life. At least it's not throat cancer. I'm just out of commission for a maybe a year and a half.

I haven't completely given up on poetry. I'm still coaching at MetaFour Houston (check them out at http://www.facebook.com/metafourhouston) and we just had out grand slam yesterday! It was very intense, and high energy! Probably the best teen slam I've been to ever. EVER. I'm excited about going to L.A this year, and I'm even more excited about Houston making a presence at BNV.

My favorite event of ALL TIME is tonight. I love adult slam offs, and the VIP Houston Slam is the season's main event (http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=112283218782274&index=1). The town's best BEST poets at Houston's only coffee shop that unreservedly loves poets and poetry. After a few glitches (apparently, NPS told them that some of their slams didn't count, so they went the exta mile and did a few more), they are FINALLY at their GrandSlam. The spoken word community has been waiting for this for a long time, and it's happening tonight! This is the team I would've slammed for, had I not had my vocal issues, but I'm hoping to still help the team once it's formed.

So, details. You should come out. You should support local art. I'm not sitting at a Panera and randomly typing out a blog for no reason at all.

Time: 9 p.m- 12:00 or whenever it ends

Place: G's and Z's Coffee Shop (4412 Almeda, Houston TX)

Cover: $5, I think, but call me for details.

Slam Mistresses: Deborah D.E.E.P Wiggins

I know most of the poets on this list, and I guarantee that this is not an event that I'm missing. Either should you.

So, stream of consciousness done. I'll be back later to put up a new poem at some point and talk about random things.

Lights

2009-07-18T01:15:00.001-05:00

thursday night, the lights went out
collective groans thrown like fishing nets into the
still, the black black sends a sudden fear,
but beyond the fear
is the music that the leaves sing to the elusive breeze
the crickets tapping their way home,
blind to the human stain still seeping into
reaches hidden by the dark,
it is only when the lights return
that i make these observations

December 27

2008-12-25T23:50:00.003-06:00

is usually spent in airports,
travel smells settling into your heavy jet-lagged face,
a worn smile reaching into familiar creases
usually, this is what we do.

this year, you will not cross the Atlantic.
i will lay in my too-big bed, and let
my imagination loose itself in its goldfish bowl.
how do i tell you i miss you
when i asked you to stay in your safe England,
when i explained that i am only in transit here,
an Indian girl with a southern drawl.

We always crossed into the New Year together
Hands weaved into each other,
party favors flicking like frog tongues into the muggy Texas night.

Fisherman

2008-11-22T21:50:00.002-06:00

I am made of bones and stones and holes,
but i'll learn how to breathe in your world.
come to me at dusk when the day begins to trust
that night will sweep up the stars when it's done
mourning another loss.

fisherman. cast your net out into the ocean
i will come swimming
it is only your heart i want

i am made of sea and salt and wind,
my hips are curiously poetic when they swim in
whirlpools round your boat why do you smell
like rugged lengths of rope that scar minute
messages on your palms.

fisherman. there are other fish, yes
but i look through the blurry green every dawn.
i know your net, and if you will cast it into this
water, i will come swimming
it is only your heart i want.

A Marked Thing

2008-09-20T14:51:00.004-05:00

I found an old little ditty I wrote to my "no-longer"!

damn! you a fine ass brotha.
flickin' those women off you
like birds with extra feathers,
your heat makes England go from
winter to sunny weather.

Houston, TX

2008-06-25T21:06:00.005-05:00

Ok, so I'm really supposed to be lesson planning (boo lesson planning), but I had this idea. So here's something very half formed. I'll work on it later.

these days, i am politically correct,
i cross my ts, dot the is, check in, check out
wear the pants that women fought for,
these days, i don't say what i mean
or check what is shotput hurled at me through
eyes and smiles and wiles, i feel the sea
leaving my body, i feel the gritty concrete
pouring in through my open ears and nostrils.
i feel like i will set here, set solid and
never taste the salt again. Never flow from
place to place, shore to shore, kissing continents
and greeting borderlines. They say it is good to
sometimes march to the beat.

Hiatus

2008-06-19T22:14:00.002-05:00

Where have you been Digh? The answer: I've been playing at being Dulcie David for a bit. Got a job, and am away training so that I too can become part of that sea of faces in early morning traffic. Houston is a very different city from Corpus Christi: the pace of life leaves you short of breath-- I miss the sea. So that's where I am, and now for happier news.
The Winward Review picked up two more of my pieces (thank you, Dr. Vanessa Jackson), so I'm thinking about branching out a little. The next and first vacation I will have is in three weeks. So plenty of poetry, music and sea before I come back to be a professional working person. Until then, I will leave this blog alone. I haven't had a moment to breathe, let along express creativity in the last two weeks, so I don't have anything new. Sorry, Chach!

Ballabajoomba Returns

2008-04-16T21:24:00.002-05:00

Rather tenuously. We're holding a reading this Friday at the Puerto Rico Cafe. Sign-up is at 9:30, and apparently there is a feature from Austin. I'm rooting for my San Antonio poets to show up, but if not, then khalli whalli, as the Arabs say.
The big IF is this: PRC will see how the night goes, and if we are fabulous and magnificent, they invite us back for a monthly or bimonthly reading. If not, then Ballabajoomba continues in its search for a new home. My prayers are with the slam master during this time.

Remembering

2008-04-16T21:22:00.000-05:00

the bugs in the kitchen remind me of you, how you
would wave a towel at them, determined to make them scatter
in every direction, how you would wash every plate,
cup, fork before you ate what had only been sealed
and roach proof, the last glob of salad cream in the fridge
reminds me of how your eyes, sparkling into the bitter December air,
curled upward as you watched me discover something new, tasting carefully,
then smiling, impressed, this table reminds me of how cold your lips
were against mine, how, pressing into you for warmth the moment
encompassed the both of us, until
all was forgotten, salad cream, roaches, and all.

Ballabajoomba Cancelled... For Now

2008-04-09T11:11:00.002-05:00

So... was I surprised to hear that Ballabajoomba got kicked out of our most recent venue? The answer would be no. We've been holding some late slams, which means that the employees of the Tango Tea Room have to stay after hours to accomodate us. Poets are never timely. But I guess this is a lesson learnt. I heard it on the grapevine that we're moving to Puerto Rico Cafe on S.P.I.D (exit Airline, people!), but they're also a family friendly bunch. I wonder how they'll take the X-rated language.
In other news, I fully plan on going to the Poetruistic Slam in Rockport this Friday to hear the ikkle ones spit. I haven't got anything new, but I love that their Starbucks overlooks the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe I'll take some pictures.

To My Brother

2008-02-16T20:15:00.001-06:00

The next time you come here, leave a comment, thendi.

Flora

2008-02-08T17:04:00.000-06:00

It is said that my great aunt Flora is a witch:
In her twenties, she was a voluptous mother-goddess of three daughters;
With a wave of oiled hair tumbling down her back,
She'd walk through the slums of Mumbai,
The foreign scent of language humming in her ears,
The throb of oxcart and rickshaw like the pulsing heart of a veined city.
She loved the afternoon marriage of roast cumin and fennel, thick as smog,
Hovering over the streets, the way men in brightly checkered lungis
Sang lullabies to the rhythm of her swaying hips,
The impassioned cry of food vendors with their kiosks of fried snacks bulging obscenely
At passing school children,
Flora loved the city.

But in the curl of her beautiful smile,
Flora harbored a secret, a prisoner-of-war tucked into that upturned mouth
With its ribs protruding painfully from its chest.
See, Flora had grown sick of her husband
A striking patrolman with a fearless mustache coiled blackly about his cheeks,
And beneath his mahogany skin were muscles knotted into his bones;
He had been able to carry all three children on one arm
And had brought his small family from a sleepy town on the backwaters of Kerala to
Mumbai! Where street urchins become celebrities
And policemen could do more than arrest local drunkards and petty thugs.
But Flora lay under her husband's sweaty sleeping body at night,
Disgusted by the smell of his passion
Wondering what lay under the lust pooling behind
Leaden eyelids of those young clean-shaven city boys
Whose faces looked painted with fresh milk and honey
The subtle hint of pink under their lips like the sunrise on the sea
So Flora gathered the mystic wisdom of her grandmothers,
The hexes and enchantments of her childhood and got to planning.

When the moon was full, she pound five petals from a pale pink hibuscus into her menstrual blood,
Swept the kitchen clean, and pulled the shabby curtain to let the stars in,
Careful not to wake her family, Flora screamed her time-tested chant in silence
Clutching at a small ripe lemon in her fist
When she was done, Flora crawled into the space beside her man
And stared out at the sky until the crows gathered to gossip on telephone wires at first light.

Hours later, a vegetable truck ran over Flora's husband.
The driver insisted that the alcohol on his breath was just - his breath.

They say Flora is a witch because all her men die
Like the thick-lipped lotterywalla that started hanging around the house after the funeral
The very one with a slew of shiny shirts
And a heavy gold chain luxuriating in his chest hair:
He choked on a fishbone in Crawford Market.
Or the Bollywood stunt-double with the real life vanishing act
Got his shoe accidentally caught in the railroad track
Right when the 2:30 Kanyakumari Express was due;
The IT professional, church going man with a vice,
Found bloody in an alley with his panta around his ankles.
With every incident, Flora grew more beautiful,
Her eyes shone with the smooth glaze of pain
And as she realized the unconditional, stubborn wrath of her spell,
She rocked her sadness in her smile like a ship caught in a storm.
But with each new lover, the tiniest piece of Flora's heart would break
Float to the bottom of her ribcage and turn into a fine shard of glass,
And with each new lover, these splinters would swim through her blood,
Cutting her as they contacted flesh, muscle, tissue,
Engraving her insides with every indiscretion she made.

They say if you go to Mumbai, you can still hear my great aunt wailing
As far as Colaba and Juhu Beach. Her tears threaten to devastate the city,
But this is the size of Flora's tsunami grief. The men still sing lullabies to the rhythm
Of her hips as she wanders in agony through the slums - calling back her magic
To erase a little bit of her pain.

Monarch Migration, Corpus Christi, TX.

2007-12-09T12:49:00.000-06:00

today they are gone.
yesterday, they came to rest
their glass-stained-tipped wings in the mangrove tree,
flitting between vines, checking for
sons, daughters, cousins and aging elders
before folding back purple and burnt orange
wings to cover the shame of a tree to whom
Autumn has denied herself.
even in transit, they are kind.

Done with their
urgent hard flight, their exodus
from an unforgiving cold seeping into frail
wings, now they can
breathe without looking over their backs for a pursuing frost.
tomorrow, they will revive themselves
by sipping in puddles and butterfly conversation
before continuing their pilgrimage along the gulf coast
where their mecca provides refuge for
the ardent worship of the sun,
leaving behind the persecution of the heartless winter
spreading south.

New Year Plans

2007-11-26T19:18:00.000-06:00

So, I'm graduating, and taking a few years off to work before I return to wreck another college campus with my brilliance. I joke. So, spending Christmas with my sister and the partridge in the pear tree, and writing. I missed Novel Writing Month this year, but a few of my friends did the 50,000 words. In the month right before finals, these folk are crazy! So, because I was so swamped with research and trying to wrap up my semester, I made a somewhat ridiculous promise to some friends. Back-to-back novel writing month. So 100,000 words in 2 months, starting January 1, 2008. I did the math, and I need to write 1666.67 words a day. Yes, seeing 6s does freak me out a little bit. Anyway.... it comes up to 7 doublespaced pages a day, size 12 font in Times New Roman. 420 pages for the first draft by the end of 60 days. I'm pretty sure I have no idea what I've gotten myself into. But every experience is good. Even if it's bad writing, it'll be a good lesson in discipline. Making myself write like that.

Putting It Out There In The Universe

2007-11-15T01:09:00.000-06:00

I suck at line structure.
And prose.
I just need you to know this.

Letter to My Late Uncle

2007-08-19T12:27:00.000-05:00

For years, you were the talk of the town
The roads sent you off in ceremonial farewell as
The first son in the family to
Go to engineering school,
But you
Spent your Daddy’s money
On sweet aarack at the liquor shacks,
You were a surly back end of a storm on humid hungover mornings
The bottle took the best of you
And spread its alcoholic arms barring you
From ever getting your degree.
So you came home and drove trucks
From the black pepper vine studded Malabar Coast
To the most remote provinces of Tibet where only the chanting of monks
Resonated through hills and valleys
For years the sun laughed deep lines into
Your young face,
And the wind sculpted you into a roll of thunder
You finally married a bolt of lightning and together you
Were a destructive typhoon,
She had a black heart that festered and
Her words covered your vision with cataracts,
Blinded by her love, you moved yourself and your new bride
To a place where cars and buses don’t run
Began to invent maladies for families, who would send money to you,
Brothers and sisters would invest in your dreams
Your get-rich-quick schemes,
They believed your unending list of alibis when
The milk in the new dairy was always curdled
Or the rubber plantation burned down
You lived off forced charity
Taught your three storm children to push for handouts
Reject small amounts,
Taught them to separate themselves from
Grandmothers and grandfathers who overextended their arms in painful broken love
you
Taught your children to be JUST LIKE YOU
So many secrets you kept from the world,
But you emerged from your wilderness for your father’s funeral to see
What wealth was left to you in the mysterious will
You were abrasive and callous
Throwing holy fits when you realized his debt was all his children would inherit
FOR YEARS YOU WERE THE TALK OF THE TOWN
They used words like
Hard headed
And black sheep,
The prodigal son whose return home would never come
The man whose requests for money never came with a please or a thank you
They would huddle on street corners and wonder what would become of
You and your family
The village gossips and towncriers watched with their ears when
Your pride finally clogged your arteries, and the demons in your brain haunted your body
With a flight of diseases
The family you had shunned built a fort of support around you, to keep those who could
multiply bad stories in ONE exacting lash of the tongue
STILL you wouldn’t speak to sisters who gathered round your bedside
As you fought for life after three successive heart attacks,
STILL you wouldn’t acknowledge a brother who kept paying your
Doctor’s fees and prescription
STILL your conceit continued to eat away the last vestiges of your health
And as the final leaves fell from your braches
Your body revolted, inside out.
Your blood staged a protest in your veins
And went on strike, a stroke
Came as cunningly as a common thief,
Robbed you of your sight,
your hearing,
your speech.
And you suddenly realized there were so many apologies you needed to make
So many sorries to resurrect and offer with outstretched arms to those who had continued to love you though your cursed wretched life
You died with your eyes wide open
Deaf to the rise and fall of sobs ripped out of your mother’s chest
Your mouth paralyzed by your very own body,
You died with everything unsaid
For years you will be the talk of the town
You will be the man who God silenced
The man who died with a world of regrets swimming in the space where his memories should have lingered.

Winding Down Spring Break

2007-03-17T21:29:00.000-05:00

Spring break is over. *Sigh* I had fun up at my sister's, watching movies and going to salsa clubs. Just one salsa club actually.

I've had a pretty good running at slam, winning three in a row. That's 30 bucks, 3 meals and 6 cups of coffee (a poets paycheck indeed-y). For the first time, I belted out that starting tune from 10th Street. And I felt good about it. My voice just decided to work for the first time since I left Hebron. Got tons of compliments, and the "do you sing professionally" question. Nah, not that great, but it was sugah for my ego anyway.
There was a new girl (well, I've never seen her on the mic before), she needs to memorize her shit, and make it cohesive. It all sounded nice, but I had trouble finding one meaning to it all. Or even finding a multilayered meaning. I guess the problem with the slam audience is that you have to spell things out for them. Myself included. How the heck are you supposed to be entertained when you feel like a poet is throwing random stuff at you that's way over your head? Real poets from academia need not apply, I guess.

Now I have to get ready for slam off. Stef's opening it up to out of towners, which means all the people who didn't make it on San Antonio or Austin. I'm glad. Even if I'm not on the team this year, it'll be a good show.

I'm looking forward to school on Monday. Seven weeks left, ya'll! After this, it's my last semester, and I'm outta this joint. Come December I'll be able to spend more time with the boo too. But until May 3, I have to focus on four research papers, and a short story. Best get back to it.

Random Thought #117

2007-03-01T17:17:00.000-06:00

It sucks when your muse doesn't respect your art.

Disconnected Couplets

2007-02-28T21:46:00.000-06:00

words grow infected and die slow, painful deaths
one by one, like brave wounded soldiers

for today, I allow myself to be comforted by
a heavy silence, Still my eyes

fight against a threatening waterlog
and tears will not drown my pain. It is

a continual night, the Black has taken your
place and tries to overstay his welcome.

numb and alone, i wait for a rebirth.
Soon words, then sentences, then entire conversations

replaces the deafening quiet.

That Ol' Lady

2007-02-25T21:16:00.000-06:00

ol' lady downstairs
got a big red nail job,
shaved off eyebrows;
she got
pencil lines sitting like
fishing lines 'bove her eyes,
she got
senile curled into that
white lady white hair;
she got a
big ol' doll collection up in her livin' room
an' sometime i see them dolls
propped up like porcelain babies
in them cabinets,
she leave her front door
wide open like the Corpus Christi bay, and
she gaurd them babies like a pitbull.

ol lady downstairs,
she crazy, boy.
she say she hear
lonely painters singing jazz standards
in my room,
she be knockin down my door
askin me to gohead give her back
a neice i ain't ever met,
she one time told me i was
surely strung out on crack.

ol lady, fool
she crazy,
she call me say-and nigga,
she say my people be lyin'
coz we never learnt how to tell the truth,
now she be sayin my place is a whorehouse,
she be calling my daddy names
that make god put stoppers in his ears.
fool, she be sayin' my people are a burden on this
united states
sayin' she can't pump no gas without seeing us
say-and niggas like roaches
in that motel offa Leopard Street.

i hold my tongue
but someone should tell ol' lady
i left a mansion and two maids
to get my American degree.

management don't do jack;
they say she just a
little harmless
ol' lady.

On Relevance

2007-02-25T21:15:00.000-06:00

Relevance eludes me
Like a man driven only by his desires:
Who leaves his scent in early morning linen,
Who flees with the rising of the sun,
Whose voice crystallizes into ice
Post encounter.

A Few Days After You Leave

2007-02-25T10:36:00.000-06:00

When you are gone
The bed seems to stretch into eternity
And I am a lone skiff
Drowning in a purple sea of sheets
I keep my fingers numbly crossed
For dreams where you star
As the lovelorn
Sensitive musician pining away
Making coal and chalk keys
Cry haunting melodies that are
Wrenched out of your fingers
But even my dreams lay devastated and devoid of you

All those beginnings
Rudely aborted before
They are
Given a chance to
Breathe;
we always begin
but the winds call you home,
They settle around my body,
and whistle coded messages to me
at night
but I do not know what language the breezes sing,
And the draught draws visible lines around the empty spaces

A million vermillion sunsets
Till you return
A million chirping crickets
That pepper the silence of night

Dry-eyed I welcome every
Sunrise and smell the
Street rise to cups of percolated coffee.
I will be the weary traveller of
Countless dusks and dawns
Until you bring the oasis
To my desert horizon
And anchor the storm tossed boat
In a sea bed of sweet dream-tipped sleep.

People Watching

2007-02-20T22:47:00.000-06:00

his potbelly precedes him:
wrapped tightly in that
sunshine-faded shirt
that stretches like skin over gourd to
ta dum, dum, drum urgent messages
calling for food to sustain that
enormous appetite swimming around
in his
potbelly announces its presence
like buzzing bluebottles
screaming against sliding glass doors,
i long to
engage it in conversation,
inquire after it's name, then
direct questions:
Isn't it terrible, Harold,
what's happening in Utah?
and Harold would have an opinion,
a surprising Yorkshire accent;
he'd reveal that he's particular to
canned custard,
and yes, it's terrible what's happening in Utah.
Harold happens to think his owner
is a slave driver who works him
harder than the Israelites in Egypt.
He's a lazy, couch potato type who spends
his paycheck in seedy burger joints
and always orders and extra portion of
fried mushrooms.
I'd then respond to this censure by

Harold, it can't be that back breaking,
after all,
you are looking quite...
well...

but Harold is carried away
by his mysterious owner;
back to his rotund beer-and-wings universe,
Harold, who has enjoyed my attention
for a whole afternoon,
Harold who looks
pompous on his palanquin,
and i
remain
firmly rooted on the park bench
on the lookout.

there will be
more candidates
for telepathic communication.

Ay Chihuahuas.

2006-11-01T23:19:00.000-06:00

I'm feeling another story creeping through my veins. Like clumps of clotted blood. Ewww.

Actually. actually. I'm supposed to be on lockdown since I have this dissertation worthy paper to write about poetry and it's effects on Chicano militancy in the late 60s on through the 70s. But I saw my father playing Solitaire on the computer today, and I decided to write a story about the time he briefly took up embroidery. Ofcourse it's going to be sad and hollow, just like the other one, so I have to make up lots of extra information. This is what I love about writing. All the making up of crapola.

I also know how to do "I Love You" in Morse Code. It's very useful. You can write a series of dots and dashes wheverever you want. It's so antiquated, so it's highly unlikely that anyone will catch on. I love it!

Dreams

2006-10-29T12:31:00.000-06:00

i dream every night
hoping to catch a glimpse of the future,
a sign that happiness lurks in sunny corners,
but every night,
I am taken back to Hebron,
the long winding drive that never ends
steeper than I remember
pulling the breath up out of my windpipe,
the drive lined with rows of sturdy trees
like a dense wood of secrets,
the old assembly hall
where we learned how to
move like clockwork soldiers
standing, singing the same
hymns, bad harmony
on Wednesdays when the
school band
stares idly at dead crotchets on lined paper.

suddenly, the history essay is due
and everyone has written a
thesis worthy paper
but I have nothing,
because no one told me
before I shut my eyes to sleep
that things are due even in your dreams.
i feel naked, and
in the background
chesire cats spill their smiles
into the upper corners of the frame.

i always peddle backwards to Hebron
when I dream,
up the drive
trying to catch my breath
trying to glimpse the future.

I Called

2006-10-27T16:18:00.000-05:00

i try
to picture you sleeping
face buried in
a mass of pillows
huddled inward to
keep
warm,
willing the cold away,
even in your dreams
you banish bits of frost to the
edges of the frame.

i don't know if you heard the phone ring,
or is that too
suspended for these precious eight,
the very trill on the list of banned noises?

you may have stirred,
rolled over, even
without waking up.
never mind me,
i just wanted to listen to your
Barely Awake Voice,
and tell you things
for tommorow night's
shuteye playlist.

Tainted Love

2006-10-22T14:39:00.000-05:00

Love so tainted
Stench of rust when you smell it,
Feels like algae when it
Slips through your fingers,
Bottle green and messy,
Swimming alone in a sea
Of lead that weighs down
Against your sternum,
Love so tainted
Every breath
Inhaled,
Exhaled,
Is dirty
Because you used that same mouth
To lie,
To steal trust from the trusting
To steal hope from the hoping
To steal time from those who had no time
To waste on you.

Love, so tainted,
Tainted love
So rank,
So foul,
Follows you around like an overeager stray dog,
Love you tainted
You want to run
Into obvilion
Dive into the lake of forgetfulness
Wipe clean your memory
Or wipe clean the slate,
Standing here you desecrate her space
Her grace, you disgrace
Only yourself
Love so tainted,
Tainted love.

I wrote this poem over a year ago, when I was going through my "let's find writing prompts" stage. The song I used here is obvious. I don't know that I was thinking of anything or anyone at the time, I just had this picture in my head when the song played and then I wrote down everything I saw in my Mind's Eye. But then again, most of my work is like that. Applications for a muse are being accepted. You have to be brilliant, talented and must be able to take my breath away for so long that when it comes back I can only speak though a starburst of images.

Awkward Observations

2006-10-22T14:31:00.000-05:00

Someone said he was a scholar of Vedic scriptures, but in America none of that really mattered. All that is left of Varghese is a functioning carcass dressed in the uniform of a convenience store clerk. Blue polo tucked neatly into crisp black slacks, silver hair smelling faintly of coconut oil, he counts out the change from a worn twenty dollar note for a six pack of Budweiser.
It is rush hour at the store. Old ladies with cheap rollers bursting from under plastic shower caps came in to buy lottery tickets, scratching like mangy grimalkins at the silver lining protecting their fortunes. Greek business men saunter in for gas, always paying cash. The punkrockgoth highschooler with the fake ID for cigarettes, donning a deep bass monotone to make the purchase. Oilers, flight school students from the naval airbase, the homeless women trying to get a bus ticket back to Atlanta.Varghese nods a hello, and politely counts out change. Somewhere in the background, locally idolized radio DJs impose their views on celebrity life and interspersed among the babble is the occasional pop song. Songs done in a pop.
The story is that he moved here after his wife died last year, or that’s what the other employees at the Speedy Mart speculate. They know that Varghese’s son is a pharmacist, but he has five more sons spread out across the continents. Apart from this, Varghese remains comfortably anonymous. What the other clerks don’t know is that Fresh Off the Boat Varghese used to be Varghese the Wise Guru. And as he ends his shift and clocks out, they won’t even realize that Varghese the religious-scholar-turned-immigrant has left the store as quietly as he came in.

The stars always seem to be doused in salt, or maybe it is just a fluff of cloud caught in a point somewhere up there in the heavens. Varghese walks home slowly, chanting a Vedic hymn that floats on the wind. He thinks his small voice may be able to carry on the sea breeze from the Gulf of Mexico and somehow find its way to the Bharathapuzha, along whose banks he spent his childhood.
“Hey, excuse me!”
Varghese turns to see the homeless woman from the store.
“Spare some change? I’m trying to get a ticket back home to Atlanta . I’ve been stuck here for three days, and I was mugged. I have no money... see?" She turns out her pockets. "None.”
She rattles it off like disengaged Anglicans at Sunday service, “We-belive-in-one-God-the-Father-the-Almighty-maker-of-heaven-and-earth.” He doesn’t want to tell her that he has heard this story everyday for the last six months.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “I have no change at the moment.”
She looks at him, ready to steamroll him with details of her tale.
“I do hope you find the funds to make it home. It must be… difficult to be so far away from everything you know.”
The homeless woman slinks off into the dark, looking for another victim to test out her foolproof panhandling tactic. The rest of the walk home is quiet. Once in a while a cat crosses the road, gleaming eyes sparkling under dirty street lights, the king of concrete city nights, free to rummage through trash containers while the sun sleeps. There aren’t many cars out, and the relative quiet sinks through the town enveloping it in its embrace. Tonight, there isn’t the smell of impending rain hanging like a question mark in the air. Tonight there is just the flicker of a homesick firefly and a lonely old man singly softly to the well groomed trees in strangers driveways.

“Appa, you’re home early. Something to eat?”
Sheela is a terrible cook. She uses prepackaged curry powder, and stirs frozen vegetables into the sambar. Occasionally Varghese tastes the thaw in the beetroot while undercooked lentils stick in his teeth. Instead of frying papadams, Sheela tosses them in the microwave. Tonight she has fried fish outside. Frying fish inside is a cardinal sin in the Indian American household: it would make their house smell terribly like ignorant immigrants.
“Appa, there‘s no hurry, I will bring it for you. You want to freshen up? I’ll make you some chai while I heat up the rice.”
“Thank you molay.” Thank you daughter.
At least she tries, he thinks later while he chews through the rubbery fish and stares at the tan skin forming on top of his cardamom tea. She’s a good wife to my Sunil. Never mind that her food tastes like lonely spices swimming around in water.
“Sunil is still working?”
“Yes, he has a late shift tonight. Leela and Ammu are in their room. So much homework. Can’t even carry those heavy bags.”
“Did you have work today?”
“No, I was off. I have to go tomorrow. Nine to six. You need anything?”
“No molay, I’m fine. Thank you for sitting with me. The food, was as always, delicious.”
Sheela’s smile widens to encompass her dark pink gums. She learned to cook from an Indian Wives in America website. How to keep your culture strong in a place that borrows culture from everyone else.

Varghese walks up the stairs to his granddaughter’s room. When he opens the door, he immediately sees tufts of black hair over a sturdy black swivel chair. Ammu probably is scowling over a math problem, or a long spelling word. Either way, her ponytail has given up its quest to stay in place for the evening.
“My little computer brain! Hiding from your grandfather?”
“No Appapa, I have homework.” She drawls out the word, plunking it down like a misbehaved toy.
“Homework? What is that? Is that like washing dishes and cooking curry?”
“No, silly Appapa… it’s…. it’s school work for home.”
“Then why don’t they call it Left Over Work?” he teases.
“They call it homework because you can’t stay after the bell rings to do it at school.”
“Oh… work you have to bring home?”
The child nods. She doesn’t know any Vedic hymns, but in America, it’s not important. There are other things that are more important. Things like knowing how to turn on a computer, or using an ATM machine. Things that Varghese doesn’t know. Things that Varghese needs to ask his six year old grandchild. The gap is a small abyss, impossible to ford. He turns around to Ammu.
“Molay, can you help me with this phone card?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know how to use it.”
“You have to scratch the silver bit off. Here, I’ll show you.”
Varghese waits silently while Ammu explains to him how to use the phone card.
“Dial this first number. Then when they ask you for your pin, you have to punch in the other numbers we just scratched off. Don’t forget to do 011 before you dial Uncle Prashant.”
Suddenly, Varghese doesn’t feel like calling Australia. He doesn’t feel like talking to Prashant, whose kids probably know how to use phone cards. Did they know nasadasin no sadasit tadani*?
“Maybe another time. At least I know how to use it now. Thank you, molay.”

Before he goes to bed, he puts out his uniform for the next day. One blue Polo. One pair of crisp black slacks. Varghese sits down in a wicker chair. From a little shoebox next to the dresser, he pulls out a tub of Kiwi shoe polish and a brush. Over time zones and datelines, his sons will polish their shoes tonight, sons he hasn’t seen in years, sons whose voices crackle hesitantly down telephone lines, sons who have learned so much from a wise guru, but can never find the words to build a relationship with their father. He sits there and polishes his shoes to a high shine, until he can see his tear streaked face in the gleam of the loafers. Mumbling incoherently a Vedic hymn no one can understand but God.

* from the Rig Veda trans: there was not what was not, and there was not what is, then

ARTIST STATEMENT

Who exactly is Varghese? Is his experience typical of first generation Indians in the United States? In Awkward Oberservations I wasn’t trying to address the issues faced by first- generation immigrants. This story is more of an observation on culture shock. Obviously, there are members of his family that have been acclimatized to American culture, Ammu, the grand daughter being the primary example. Varghese however, has difficulty trying to reconcile himself to his new identity. He goes from a respected religious scholar to a convenience store clerk. The disparity is obvious to the reader. He doesn’t lord his old position over anyone, but it’s clear that his knowledge of all things spiritual is absolutely useless in his new enviorment. What’s more importance is the more practical aspect of life. The new culture is not steeped in religion. It’s immersed instead in knowing how to operate an ATM machine or taking the bus. Culture shock is indeed a powerful inhibitor. Awkward observations then, aren’t just made by the central character. They are made by the author and by every immigrant going through a necessary, yet painful transitional phase.
Apart from one class workshop, the story had four seperate peer reviews. Being my first attempt at prose, the story of Varghese proved to be tricky. I went through several drafts, mostly working out technical details like point of view and slashing out large portions of text that I felt were didactic.The writing process was difficult, as I am used to poetry. I automatically used some poetic elements in the writing itself, like the use of the fragmented or free hanging sentence e.g. “Songs done in a pop.” In its present form, the story has a basic skeletal form to build on. In time, I hope to shed light on some of the ambiguities in the plot and grow it from a portaiture into a more substantial short story.
The other concern was the grammatically defunct dialogue between the Indian characters. Questions like “Sunil is still working?” are transliteration from Malayalam or any South Indian vernacular. I decided that to correct the mode of conversation would be to misrepresent the way that Keralites (Varghese being from the state of Kerala) speak when they choose to communicate in English. Grammar is a small price to pay when authenticity is at stake.
For a first story, I’m pleased with the results. I thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of creating a coherent, yet artistic piece of work.

Some Random B.S

2006-10-15T19:26:00.000-05:00

Ok, this short story thing is hard. The first draft was done weeks ago, but now I have to do some major gutting and revising. My teachers aren't being in the least bit helpful: I wish they would tell me it was crap!
The good news is, my sister, her fiance and I are starting a writing group. Daz is my writing role model, and Reejis is a fanstastic writer himself.
I won slam two weeks in a row. Good news is that my siblings are coming down this weekend for Jazz Fest. On top of that, some mututal friends are playing on Sunday and are coming down from Houston. So that is something I am super excited about! We're definitely taking some pictures.
Over and Out.
Digh.

Induced Insomnia

2006-10-10T11:13:00.000-05:00

My head is a bulldozer.
The concrete dust from crater walls
I haven't bothered to sweep up.
I wonder what I have done.
I wonder what I have undone.

The ringer is set to on,
and the phone sleeps next to my restless pillow.
I wonder what I have done.
I wonder what I have undone.

Morning comes, and your silence
screams across continents.
I drag my feet through the day
I wonder what I have done.
I wonder what I have undone.

Writer's Block.

2006-10-09T20:22:00.000-05:00

Writing a short story is harder than I thought. I'm done with the first draft, and it's rather shitty. I'm not getting the message I want to across, there's way too much narrative, and I don't know how to foreshadow. What's worse is my English teacher thinks it's wonderful and won't give me any feedback.

I have severe writer's block, and my story is due in a week or so.

On the bright side, I got a present today. There's a really nice lady in my English class that I also happen to have a History class with. I had some classes with her last semester as well. I mentioned that I liked plants, so today I got 3 different kinds of cactii. Two of them are babies... they are cute! Apparently one of them blooms yellow flowers, so I have to wait for about 2 years. Hopefully they won't die.

Now back to writing.

Art is Music is Math

2006-10-08T02:01:00.000-05:00

Mrs. Longfield wanted me to
Immortalize the clarinet in
Standard Nine Art, she
Gave me Ds for Effort
And Ds for Achievement.
I’d try to explain her dryness to
My parents,
It stood for
Definitely Divine.
Divinely Delicious
Drawings, Dull-Sea.

Her husband
Moved through the hallways like a ballerina
And rode his bicycle up the long winding drive
He taught Advanced Math
Pirouetted around algebraic
Formulae and plied
Plied
Plied
Around the Pythagorean theorem
square root
Square root
Square root

Toot toot
I played clarinet,
Third chair, I like Jazz Improv
Or Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band,
I liked Mr. Martin, the very English
Head of the Music Department
Who spoke colloquial Tamil without the
Trace of an accent.
Part of music is knowing math
Count the note until there’s
Only a quarter left
Then take a breath.

In the silence of the art room,
Purple pastel for the reflection
Of Jazzy Jake’s home knit sweater
In the silver keys.
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
He lived with his mother, of course.

Art is Music is Math,
Creativity boils down to a Science.
They tell you that there
is no right way to do Art,
But you can still get a D for misrepresenting
A clarinet:
They hid the formula in
A math class somewhere.

Disclaimer: I don't like rumors, so I want to make it clear that I do not harbor any resentment toward any of my teachers during my years at boarding school. Infact, I liked most of them, and generally got on well with all the staff (I hear now it's called brown nosing, but back then it was called "You're well on your way to becoming a Prefect". I jest) . The only ones I didn't like for extended periods of time were the P.E teachers around cross country season. And yes, I was a poor art student. I sometimes think I am capable of drawing a decent stick figure, but here too, I find I am only lying to myself.

Taking the Bus

2006-10-01T18:54:00.000-05:00

Solitary tear seeps through that strong façade on the bus
The landscape outside is slowly blurring
And she sees herself out by the lake
Speeding by
Waist deep in laughter,
Swinging arms out to reach
Into a sea of blues and purples;
Now the bohemain café
Drinking rare and fragrant teas,
Never noticing the time flick its unforgiving fingers
While conversation dances between
Two word thirsting pilgrims
Only stopping to refresh themselves
Before braving the winds of
A concrete, faceless, crowd.
Her life is a French song,
So beautiful and sad,
She can never understand what exactly they sing
But she hears strains of injury and pain,
Punctuated by a content clarinet solo.

Today, it is cold outside,
The bus fills with worn poverty,
Every mile sinks her deeper into
A pool of her solitary tears
Huddling together for warmth.
The winter has set in,
And conversation has gone into hibernation,
The lake has frozen over
And her sun sets too early.

She usually walks home lazily,
now the whirring motor of the
bus reduces her to
a typecast: lonely woman
crying silently
in the very back seat.

Dalo's Chachee

2006-10-01T17:43:00.000-05:00

I've always
tried to
fit
into your
shoes,
draw with your crayons,
sing with your
nasally underbelly.

The first day of school,
you punched
Waleed outside
Al-Noori Elementary
for laughing
at my lunchbox.

He knew no English.
We knew no Arabic.
But he got the message.

Mild mannered
Big sisters
Grow stony fists
for baby Dalos
as early as the first grade,
and chachees will
fight little battles across
lifespans
so that i
can sing with your nasally underbelly.

Accapella Love

2006-09-30T20:12:00.000-05:00

Love
is as intricate
and beautiful
as an all male
accapella goup
strong bass line
smooth tenor
and baritone
a lead weaving
through the strength
of the harmonies.

When I think of you,
and when I think of love,
I think of strength
accompanied not by a piano
or a guitar
but by
a voice equal to yours.

Dance into your Global Village!

2006-09-29T14:51:00.000-05:00

Indian experimental
sounds like ganja infused
sitar dancing on top of
turntables,
In my headphones,
beyond the Mind's Eye and burned
into retinas of imagination,
Medha Hari
leaps into funk.

bha
ra
tha
natyam.

emotion
melody
rhythm
dance.

Pop and
lock into
a trance.

Sa Re Ga Ma
Do Re Mi Fa
Ga Re Ma
Ga Re Ma

clap your hands
and mix your carnatic wailing
with a strong electric guitar
Medha Hari and Fred Astaire
swing out of
earshot
and the track is over.

Maybe the next song
will pull down
the new Iron Curtain,
and float away
in a river of
crude oil.

And all that Jazz....

2006-09-19T11:19:00.000-05:00

We had a guest speaker in our English class yesterday, one of the creative writing professors coming to speak to us about short stories and what not. I was glad when someone quizzed her about writing habits. She told us that she wrote twice a week. I guess that was scheduled time for her. She sait it wasn't a bad idea to write everyday, which is what I do anyway. But now I feel that maybe I should take a break and focus on writing something that isn't poetry. As much as poetry is a part of who I am, all the little vomits adding up to a huge barf, maybe I should try my hand at something that I find much more challenging. Essays? Nah, no body apart from academics write essays, and I'm definitely not trying to make English my profession. Maybe I should write a short story. I'm going to give it some serious thought.

Taking Time Off

2006-09-19T11:13:00.000-05:00

take the telephone off the hook
and leave the mailbox to overflow:
we will take a break.
ignore the thoughts
searing into
the forefront of our minds:
the bull in the chinashop
of our week.

we are determined to take a break.

A Circus Blessing

2006-09-14T18:36:00.000-05:00

May the
Man in the glitter encrusted vest
make leathery elephants and arabian horses
your fantasic companions,
May the dark be filled with
juggling clowns and nimble trapeeze artists,
May every road you travel
be lit with festive lights
of happy colors
May every step you take
be a swirling dance.

May all your days be circus days.

Time Zones

2006-09-14T12:07:00.000-05:00

There's about six hours
lost somewhere in the Atlantic
among mythical sea creatures
that chew on minutes,
swallow seconds,
use clock hands as chopsticks.

When you wake,
I am still dreaming
of red double deckers
and stiff gaurds,
ceramic teapots
cushioned inside
homemade cozies
and while you shake off the sleep
and check on the state of the world,
I spot you on the horizon
of my reverie
pulling socks on,
grabbing keys,
exiting to the left
of my dream.

Two Rather Odd Thoughts

2006-09-08T18:50:00.000-05:00

I wrote a series of poems for a friends of mine last night. He'd asked me if I had ever written about our friendship, and ofcourse, I said I hadn't. But I thought about it later and as usual, the verbal vomit landed on the pages of my random poetry log.

Maybe my Battles are Anthills
the awkward big-mouthed man
struggling with his conscience
as he shares with you the secrets
he learned in confidence,
that is what the noise of my battle
sounds like.
i could've lain in trenches
with the soldiers at Gallipolli
taking black and white photographs
reaching mental stalemates.
without the cameras
it's always dark:
i never find my cateyes,
or touch the cloud hidden stars;
in this hole i chase the words that elude me,
ask questions to the Night
but she is silent.
Then you come with the
light of a thousand fireflies
and i find sentences in hidden crevices,
prayers grow wings and flutter gracefully
to streets paved in gold,
they will not find me at Flander's Field tonight.

I can only offer gratitude,
and you take the place of a
never ending thought:
a slideshow of black and white
photographs linked together by
evening conversation.

All These Nothings
the hardest poem i write
will be the definitions we dance around,
speaking of a hoarde of nothings
buttered with genuine concern
and topped with the utmost interest.
These nothings
are stored away in rosewood cabinets
pulled out
when we have forgotten how to smile,
and some may say
that nothing has no empirical value,
but these are the rubies and sapphires of
our days,
little stories handpicked from mundane routines.
they say Manhattan was sold for twenty four dollars,
but the Indians walked away
with sparkling stones,
precious in their sight.

Conversation

2006-09-08T18:46:00.000-05:00

i imagine
all thirty two teeth
vying for attention
as your lips stretch over them
to smile.
in your world,
the lilting ease
with which words
slide out of my mouth
is worthy enough
to carry over into dreams.

I only say normal words.
but your love takes these bricks
and recreate the Taj Mahal
for when i stop speaking
you will bury the memory
of your own smile
and your perfectly white teeth
will retreat like Shah Jahan
into the black fog.

Pope’s Playground

2006-09-04T14:42:00.000-05:00

I wrote this one for an English class. We had an assignment on Alexander Pope's 'Rape of the Lock'. Yes, it rhymes! Ewww.

Imagine what the kids would say
If they saw Pope on the playground
Five foot even
Wore tissues in his pumps
But that didn’t help any
The man had a hump,
I mean, this hump could rival the dromedary camel
Or Hugo’s bell ringer of Notre Dame
Or the grandma in the osteoporosis Ad,
But really,
I’ve seen the pictures:
Pope wasn’t all that.

He fell in love once
And when he managed to get his nerve up
All she did was did was
Throw him a persnickety look
And laugh.
Wrong move woman
But
Who needs a chick
When you have friends like
Addison and Swift?

What do you do when you’re bullied as a child
Shoved into corners and then
Can’t get into college coz your faith is reviled?
Self-educate my friend
And this is what Pope did
Famous and financially independent
By the time he hit the big Three O
Translated Homer’s Illiad and Oddessy for
Those who had a desire to know
Choosing words like David with his stones
His pen mightier than any epic sword

Anyway, one summer a friend pops in
For tea and scones and
A favor:
There’s been a misunderstanding,
Could Pope’s pen possibly heal the breach?
Pretty please, be begged over
Imperial tea Darjeeling tea
Fresh from the jewel in the crown Colony

The storyline is asinine
But it gave Pope another reason to write
Achieve literary perfection in his couplet rhymes
About a self-absorbed socialite
Whose beauty stunned the sun and
Shamed the satellites
And the man who wanted a
Lock
Of her
Hair.

Here’s the mock epic and the satire
Here’s the extinguisher for your high society fire
Here’s peace to the world and those in London on the rise.

Pope: critically acclaimed, the man with
The pen for all reasons
The pen for all seasons
The crowd pleaser
And the mind teaser
The pen that is the
Samuri sword and the
Olive branch.

Imagine the kids and what they would say
If they saw Pope on the playground.
They’d probably gather round and
Whisper:
“Hey Tony,
See that dwarf grown-up dude with a hump guy?
Don’t mess with him.
That’s Alexander Pope, man.
He’s got a pen.”

untitled

2006-09-04T14:41:00.000-05:00

You see,
I’m trying this on for size.
This me and you thing
May not fit
Into my world

But you
You bring sunlight and icecream
Music and daffodils,
Starshine and afternoon tea.
You smile
And in the quiet
I smile back.

I lay awake at nights sometimes

And think
That I like
The way you think.

And I think
That I like
The way
You quietly
Underline
The loud
The loud that is me.

I like that you could be
The chartered accountant
That would read his newspaper after
Work
And that I could be
The boisterous cook
Chattering constantly.

You make my eyes dance

You make my soul take a deep breath

And relax.

And when I’m THIS happy,
I get a little
Scared.
A little apprehensive
Because I know
I deserve
So much
Less.

So I try
To let
You slip
Through my world
And pretend I don’t notice
When you
Look confused

I chide my emotions
And force them
Back into my chest
And I say
That
I’m trying us on
For size.

When the truth is
I’m scared with wanting
This, wanting us,
Scared because I’m trying us on
For size and
You
Are perfect.

Tacqueria Alteno

2006-09-04T14:37:00.002-05:00

Corpus Christi, Texas.
Crawling with hole-in-the-wall
Two bit burrito serving
Fast food restaurants
Called Tacquerias.
Inside their green
paint chipped,
Momentary Monterrey jack cheese
Whiff;
Men wearing wife beaters and curly mustaches
Eat upsized dollar meals:
Grease laden.
Caloric uptake thrown like caution to the wind.
Don’t know lard lies on the path to hell,
Or clotted arteries,
Or massive heart attacks.

And I.

I step off a plane from London
Tomato juice enthusiast,
Never heard of Crisco,
The Lonely Planet Guide my travelers Bible.
I had braced myself for culture and sub-culture shock
Almost expected to step into a sea of
Sombreros and avocadoes,
I was no fence sitter, no-one had ever used clichés on me
From Heathrow to Dallas,
I had thought pretty thoughts,
Philosophized on self-immersion, hard work and
The nature of the
Lingual and
Bilingual.

Tex-Mex.
Another success story like
East meets West.
Like Tofu chili and the California Roll,
Low fat mennudo and the
Taco Bell franchise.
English spiked with Spanish.
A slice of Americano, a slice of quesadilla.
The Tacqueria.
Sunday morning dawns into a humid fog
And men gather in an empty field.
Big, burly, stocky- almost advertising
Their menu in their build.
They come out to play soccer:
The Almighty Tacqueria Championship.
This week, it’s No. 1 and No.2 vying for
Popularity in the Flour Bluff area.

Hispanic.
American born with Mexican parents.
Parents with thick accents
Tongue battling with the language
Their children frolic in.
A foot in the homeland:
An eye on an alien culture.

When in Rome, do like the Roman.
Behave like the Roman.
Morph into the Roman.
Let down your hair, bathe like a Roman.
Spit into the dust like a Roman.
Forget who you were, you now are a Roman.
One with the Roman.

Today.
Today I pack up momentary jingoism and leave it in a
Closet.
I drive to
Tacqueria Alteno and step inside.
The smell,
Foreign to my nostrils hits the back of my throat.
Eyes watering, nauseous, I can only manage to curse
My sense of adventure.
Glance over the menu, lips suddenly surprised by
Unfamiliar words
I recall in embarrassment calling some unsaintly man
Jesus,
Order a plate of enchiladas
And sit.
And wait.

The Lovesong of Dulciemone the Keralite Beauty of Ooty.

2006-09-02T19:05:00.000-05:00

(dedicated to my dear friend who is queen of Kallu terrain, my mone)

O Gopala where art thou?
Please come to me with your waterbuffaloes.
We will get married at the Eranankulam railway station.

Prabhu Dev will dance for us.
Mohanlal will act for us.
We will sing our anthem of love Chiku Pukku chiku Pukka Raila!

In the room, the women come and go,
Speaking of Debo.Nair. Pheno.Menon.

When I get married, I want to drive off in an autorickshaw instead of a limo.
I want my garlands to be made out of chappalls.
My sari to be spun out of first class beedis.
I want to honeymoon at a resort where they have a swimming pool of fish curry.
The towels made out of papads.
A coconutwater bed.
With pillows stuffed with the finest hay.
From the feed stalls at the local dairy in some small forgotten village in Kerala.
The auto should say Stalin on the front and Hallelujah on the back.
The driver should be from the bakery at the bottom of Selbourne drive with the overpriced eggs.

Sippin on a frooti
Bumpin in our auto
Visitin the ghee factory.

We will go to a land where idlis grow on trees.
And sambar flows in the river.
We will fly to that place where vadais know no end
And Pongal is the concrete that tars the roads.
We will roam freely among the panwallas and other exotic animals.
We will sit under the banyan tree.
And feed each other some hot hot bondas.

In the room, the women come and go,
Speaking of Debo.Nair. Pheno.Menon.

When we grow old,
We can buy a second hand Bajaj scooter
From Vijayan at the ration store.
Our sons will have your mustache.
Our daughters will have my hairy legs.
We will send them to Yamrika.
To study for engineeringdoctornurse.
We will be able to send them proudly with Lifebouy soap.
Veeco toothpowder.
And Fair and Lovely.
We will be able to send for them Liril Lime Fresh Talcum Powder.
Priya Pickles,
And Bata chappalls.

I will wait for you with the goodness of Parachute coconut oil in my jet black hair.
Will you come for me, with a tub of Brylcreem in your mustache?

~With more than a thousand apologies to T.S Eliot. Love your work, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, dead budda.

Bartending

2006-08-29T10:49:00.000-05:00

speedrow
scotch and burboun make friends in the middle
while tequila flirts with the soda gun,
smirnoff vodka and bacardi rum
loose themselves
in capecodders
and pina coladas.
gin waits
for the old gentleman
to ask for her
by name.
cheap, giddy fix
house on deathrow
you will be the first to go
and no one will remember you
in the morning.

New News

2006-08-20T22:30:00.000-05:00

Yaay! Doodhie and I recorded a live version of a song I wrote yesterday... it's very simple, but now that it's done and sounds like it was played in a smoky bar, it reminds me somewhat of Devendra Banhart (sp?). Once I convert it from cda to mp3, I'll definitely post it on myspace, and ya'll can check it out. Very rough recording, but I like the fact that I sound like that live and unplugged. The song is called 'So So', and basically the chorus stemmed out of a conversation I had with my best friend who I haven't seen in months.

'How you been?'
'So so'.

Lol! Anyway, that's that, now I have to go and help Doodhie with his lyrics which always seem to be grammatically incorrect.

The Journey

2006-08-20T22:24:00.000-05:00

we will not erect a historical monument
for what has been
there will be no towering statue
that looms over busy landscapes,
tarred streets, and noisy traffic
for what has been,
there will be no love songs sung,
no books written
no movies made to chronicle the pain of what has passed
and our gravestones will not read
'Here lies the tomb of unloved hearts.
'see,
love isn't cheap when there's a price to pay
and emotions aren't passing feelings
that can be washed out by the rain
and everyone has stories
about the one that got away
what a shame!
so much pain!
can't find the mute button to drown out
the way you feel
but this is so real,
the wise men say
heartbreaks are a common commodity
everyone should have atleast one,
or two,
and the wounds will heal,
makes you a stronger you.
the wise men will bare their chests
and show you the scars
you know are crisscrossed
under their skin
and they will tell you
about the River of Tears they had to swim
,and the Forest of Numbess:
they had to find themselves under the Banyan tree
before they reached enlightenment,
they will tell you'this too shall pass'
but all you see
are lines crossed
and burned bridges
all that is left is you sticking
question marks on the ends of your doubt
and your rose tinted glasses
lay shattered at your feet
but the new light shed on the situation
makes everything so blurry
but child, this is how you must start your journey
alone and desolate,
looking for grace in a place that has no name,
and even after you come to
your bed of ephiphanies
there will be no applauseto bid you welcome
into a world where every triumph over heartache
passes by
with no pomp or ceremony .

Mid Day Low

2006-08-20T22:21:00.000-05:00

sun shining through the dirty windows
leaving gold on the
green hardwood floor
like the brocade
of my mother's sari
embroidered with the shadows
that embrace the saffron threads
tell stories from the Mahabaratha.

the glass,
half empty
holds water
chilled by the sea breeze
and a sheen mist
kisses the crystal

i see
i see
so clearly

inside,
i smell a sweet burning
of another rusty green
wrapped in
brown cigar leaves

man wearing his Texan drawl
sprawls in a chair
stretches his long legs
and shares the adventures of the day.
we wait,
the Gulf of Mexico
breezes in open windows
dirty,
faded yellow over
blueblack trees

a sunset in my lazy mind.

chai with spicy cardamom
soanpapillas dozing fatly
on a plate; bicycles
outside
could easily be Kerala:
cousins sitting cross-legged
on the veranda
at Keecheri House
practicing carnatic scales
sound floating over the fence
to the man at the vegetable stall,
he listens.

we listen
lavender night outside
dirty window gleams
in delicate lightbulb muted glow
fishing poles promise
stories for Sunday afternoon tea.

I Vent on my Soapbox

2006-08-15T16:56:00.000-05:00

I don’t want to be
Another Indian poet
Hiding conveniently behind
My ethnicity
Spinning tales of
Bengal tigers and Kohinoor diamonds.
I don’t want to wax lyrical on
Decolonization or
Ghandhi indulging in a passionate moment with the Mrs
While his father sucked in his
last breath in the room next door
Because
Enough Indian poets are
Sycophants who bang out verses on
Mango trees and paddy fields
Poets that are the wives of Mumbai socialites
Who,
Having sent their young to
Ritzy Private Schools
Are itching for a cause and
Imagine they can find these in the villages,
Enough Indian poets are willing to
Sell a stereotype to sell a book
So that
I’m left
Constantly battling every
Overplayed cliché when I’m abroad.

Are you Indian?
Yes.
Does your father own a convenience store?
No.
A motel?
No.

Did you ride an elephant to school?

I don’t want to be the
Garden Variety Indian Poet
That basks in the glory of the
Raj and the Taj
I will not give wings to those flights of fancy
There is no quixotic escapist here
Lounging about in nostalgia
No, I will be the Revolutionary of Truth
And tell you that my country isn’t about
Magic and mystery anymore.
No, it’s about software development
And extremist religious political parties,
It’s about Hindus burning down mosques
And muslims burning down temples.
It’s about my Uncle Sunny,
Driving drunk on his green scooter
Driving home to beat up his wife on Saturday
And sit nonchalant in church the next morning.
It’s about German tourists trying to find peace
And students at the Cochin University discovering rap.
It’s about the arms race with Pakistan,
Hollywood versus Bollywood
Cyclones and credible college degrees
All the things that
Are
Life in India
But
These things don’t show a sense of
Literary genius or pride for the Republic
These things just make my country seem like
Every other country
But
This is who we are and
Poets, artists, writiers, even politicians
And the heads behind vacation package marketing
Claw at the past
Live in the past
Write in the past
Sell you the past as a substitute for the
Not so exotic present.

Not I.
I refuse to be labelled
I refuse to be another Indian poet that
Adds to the confusion
I refuse to hand over a pair of
Rose tinted glasses that
Self adjusts to
What the masses feel my
Country should be like.
I don’t even want to be
That “Indian” poet.
I
Just want to write poetry
And be relevant.

Good Days

2006-07-31T01:51:00.000-05:00

Once again,
I sink in this deluge of
Dispensable devotion.
Like a bad habit,
My feet
Hurry back to
Rains of
Insensitive insult.

Ma, I wonder
If my love will bide me
Through your dark:
Because I wait,
With bated breath
Like a man possessed

For your good days.

When you reward me with a smile,
When you sing,
And I hear
Syncopated melodies
Bursting
through the house;
When you look at me
And all I see is pure emotion
Pooling in your eyes,

I’ll wait.

Because today
I’m not good enough
Today,
I’m the spawn of Satan
And the sight of me repulses you.

Swept up by the storm you
Scream that
I’m unstable.
You’re busy
Stacking hypotheses,
Formulating theories,
And every equation boils down to
The fact that
I
Am a waste of space in the Universe.

Ma,
On your good days
We make plans,
We dance,

You teach me to sing like
You
Harmonies full and lilting
Float through the house
Like a breath
Of fresh air
And I am satiated on happiness
Bursting at the seams,

On your good days,
You have no regrets:
You want me,

And I

Let down my guard
Tell you secrets
And we giggle like
Punch drunk giddy girls
I
Share with you
My hopes
My dreams
My fears
But today
You are throwing them in my face.

Ma, today,
I can’t bear the pain
And my heart breaks again

I’ll cry in the silence and wait for your
Good days.

I’ll sit down and write just to remember your
Good days.

I look forward to your good days

The Color of Jealousy

2006-07-31T01:49:00.000-05:00

The world looks red today.
Anger seeps through the cracks of
A brittle mind
To claim the little sanity that is left.

I’m not accustomed to jealousy.

God the bloodbath.
This is no minor skirmish,
This is a passion diseased,
This is no playground bully,
This is an overwhelming undercurrent
Dragging me
With it
Into a place
I don’t want to go to.

I’m not accustomed to jealousy.
So today, I’m unprepared.
Today it’s silent and quick
Brutal and unmerciful
Today it takes over
And I can’t help but
Surrender.

Because my world is meant to
Be sepia and ochre,
Mint and coffee,
Sapphire and ruby,
Lavender and bottle green,
Golden, silver, rust and white.
Today I can’t stop the gnawing,
I can’t override the doubts
I can’t block out the questions,
I can’t just close my eyes and
Exhale.
I can’t breathe out the jealousy.

Suffocating, isn’t it?
When you
Are helpless on the
Other side of the fence
Being forced to swallow
Your own bitter concoction,
When you see red fence, red grass,
Red you, red him,
Red sky, red clouds,
Red past, red future,
You cry red tears,
Shout red words
Stomp your red feet
Into a red ground
And you collapse
Wasting away into the red.

Whoever said
The color of envy
Was green?

We Shall Never Know

2006-07-31T01:38:00.000-05:00

i like to watch
the clouds travel at night
sharing sky secrets
with the trees
silhouetted against the dark
leaf heavy branches
wave messages back
in the wind
and save new star gossip
in the sap.
morning comes
and the concrete
rises to meet the
rush of traffic
never having understood
the nature
of the ancient bonds within
Nature.

Why I Do Not Discuss My Faith

2006-07-24T00:28:00.000-05:00

The most perfidious way of harming a cause consists of defending it deliberately with faulty arguments.

Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science, section 191

Life on 10th

2006-07-22T16:07:00.000-05:00

He said
I didn’t know how hot it burned in this furnace
He said
I didn’t know how cold it got in Hell

January found us huddled in
Blankets on top of deflated air mattresses
Licking chapped lips
And wishing earlier than mid-December nightfalls.
You had no electricity, no gas
No curtains for windows that overlooked
Grimy streets
Streets that reeked of
Day old prostitution
Streets that were littered with
Hastily made, then abandoned crack pipes
And in January,
I chose the warmth
Your body gave
Instead of a blazing furnace at home
It was the worst of times:
The city had dried up, and
Unemployment hung stagnant in the air
We combed the parking lots for copper pennies
Just to cover a bag of chips
And whatever was left of our dignity.
After midnight, I’d sneak you up
The rickety back stairs
And you sat outside my kitchen door
While I cooked with an urgency that
Almost knocked air out of lungs
And all I could ever give you was
A plate of rice with red lentils
And my time.

You’d speak of Home,
And how you could just admit defeat
Just to go back for a hot shower,
How God seemed so far away,
And how your prayers echoed noisily in empty rooms
And all of your flawed attempts at life
Just pointed and laughed in your face.

So, I’d hold you at night
When the dark made us forget how black the situation was.
Sleep would take her sweet time coming,
And send the bitter sea breeze through
Cracked window panes to warn us of Her delay.
January was the coldest month;
Unforgiving, like a spurned lover in her winter
And no matter how you tried,
The hunger never thawed into a vibrant spring,
Your thirst was a desert that never felt the kiss of rain,
Your fears never melted into the sunshine of summer,
And you always sang that you
Never knew how hot it burned in this furnace
And that you never knew how cold it got in Hell.

Fine Ass Brotha

2006-07-22T16:00:00.000-05:00

I hear they don’t call it jungle fever anymore
But damn! You a fine ass brotha!
You’re right up there with Boris Kojdoe and
Shamar Moore
You’ve got eyes that drill holes in the blackest night
Lips that could almost crook a finger and beckon
The trance induced throngs of women to linger
Under open skies of starry moonlight
Have in my sight that five o clock shadow that would
Rub against my shoulder long
after time ceased to exist
Can’t resist the hands that could
Play me like a free tuned twelve string guitar and
Supersta
You got a body that puts
Dancers, models and LL Cool J to shame
And hey,
Shoe size?
Yessir!

Damn! You a fine ass brotha!
I got it I got it bad
I’ll hang up and call right back
Moan on the phone,
make you drop the receiver,
whatever your pleasure
I want to swivel my hips in your general direction
Peek from under eyelashes kohled to perfection
Find the pose that makes you
Pay attention and
Suddenly discover that I
Was the goddess that ruled your childhood subconscious
The Perfect 10 Manifest
That you couldn’t find in anyone else

See it’s the season for chocolate
And I’ve got a sweet tooth
Give me Twix, Galaxy, Bounty or a Babe Ruth
I want every shade of brown at my open call,
I want to audition the
Mocha, the caramel
The coffee and the ebony
But when it comes to casting baby
You’ll be the starring character
Love interest, lust interest,
And any other sort of interest is
Secondary right now,

Damn! you a fine ass brotha!
Just standing by the floor with your boys
Hey that rhymes with toys,
I’ll be your toy
You can wind me up
And spin me around
Push all my buttons
Crash into me coz
Damn! you a fine ass brotha!
If you’re looking for your number one fan
You know I’m somewhere doin a dance
Tryin to muster up the courage
To just walk past you and not
Swoon
I’ve already had Seven Kamikaze shots
Two cherry Vodka sours
Half a bottle of Inglenook
And some Mad Dog 20/20
Just to
Walk past you
Maybe I’ll be drunk enough to make a move
I got to ask you: ain’t got shit to loose
And I can’t live with myself if I don’t know the truth
Super duper fly brotha,
Do you find me fly too?
Coz damn! You a fine ass brotha!

A general note

2006-07-16T16:06:00.000-05:00

Ugh. I'm an equal opportunity employer when it comes to men. Black, White, Korean, Navajo... you name it, I can probably stomach them for a date or two. But here's the deal. I'm not a casual dater. I like the whole monogamous thing. This is probably one of the reasons why I'm not looking forward to Nationals. I mean, I can't wait for oodles of poetry, and hanging out with my friends, etc etc. But the men. *shudders*. I know I won't be doing any making out in cars with boys that week. Hot or otherwise. And this coming from a woman who's been single for 4 1/2 years? Must be bad.

The Gig

2006-07-02T19:52:00.000-05:00

half rests between the
diminshed chords
rose through my feet
and through my empty stomach
while I breathed in the magic
of dancing piano keys
and waited
for my cue,
and the song to begin.

On the Nature of Relationships

2006-06-29T22:02:00.000-05:00

do not get comfortable
in this space I have loaned you.
your stay in my Universe will
seep out
and gather into a puddle in a busy street
at highnoon.
the stars will refuse to shine for you
tonight,
my words will gape like a black hole
and swallow you into nothingness,
my love will crystallize
and chill even your hesitant advances;
the fruits of your labor will be declared null and void.

Be careful when you speak to me:
one word can pull the welcome rug
from under your feet.

Trip to the Alamo

2006-06-27T22:58:00.000-05:00

So I went to the Alamo yesterday. Looked for the Pee Wee Herman phonebooth, but didn't see it anywhere. So much for my grand ambitions for singing "the stars at night". I was a little weirded out by all the David Crockett crap they had in there. Everything from a log in his fireplace, to the fork that he ate with. Was Crockett a celebrity back in the day? Anyway, here's what came out later.

sunlight slowly seduces
melanin on my forearm
i stand, under a live oak
brimming with stories that
flow along its branches,
and seeps into green leaves.
inside, a lock of
Davy Crockett's hair
stops budding historians
in their tracks:
effeminite bronze
twinkling in
the shrine of Texan liberty.

Scrimmage

2006-06-24T05:56:00.000-05:00

Note to self: fine ass brothas up in Austin. Must make a point to go up there soon.

Heidi Hovda's Art Ball

2006-06-17T21:52:00.000-05:00

So, the radio show went relatively well. We got to promote scrimmage, and also got to read some pieces. Heidi asked where the word "slam" came from, and Stef, ofcourse had this analogy about grandslam in baseball, and hitting the ball out of the universe... with words. At this point, Em and I look at each other and lean away from the mike. Ofcourse, the event was going to be "up the chain" and "over the hook", I was a hybrid East Indian/Asian, and we had the sexual haiku. Ay chinga. Rockie, Em and I got together (with food!) later to work on the Ugandan group piece, and things flew right along. I think we have the beginnings of a new group piece. It's going to be up the chain and over the hook. Yah. That's how it's going to be. Now I have to go memorize and use the restroom. I have way too much Turkish coffee.

The 6/16 Ballabajoomba Slam

2006-06-17T01:42:00.000-05:00

I won! I won! Again. I'm actually beginning to have all my shit memorized, which makes getting up on stage alot easier. Funnily enough, all the acting in boarding school doesn't prepare you for stagefright when it comes to performing your own pieces. I feel hellish whenever I'm about to hit the stage! Tito says I'm looking alot more relaxed, which to him, means that I must be starting to believe in myself. Believing in myself was never the problem. I'm just a pro when it comes to being underprepared.
Anyhoo... the night was good. Last Friday, when I was hosting and hadn't bothered to look as fine as I can sometimes look, Ricci had showed up with a bunch of his homeboys (swoon, swoon), and I did the "Fine Ass Brotha" piece in his honor. I lied through my teeth later when he asked if it was about him. But I guess the line "You have a body that puts dancers, models and LL Cool J to shame" might've given it away. Shame on me for having a crush on a bodybuilder.
This week, Rockie hosted, and 9 poets came to the stage. It was awesome to finally meet Susan, who I've heard so much about. She used to be on the team 4 years ago, and then moved to VW. She rocks, and so do all the tatooes that seemed to cover almost every sqaure inch of her body. Anyway, I digress. So, I went with "His Disfigured Ephipany", "171" and "Hanging Onto the Hangover" this week. I thought I should bring out all the old stuff. Emily did that new piece on Uganda (great great piece, great great poet) which I think we're going to dissect a little and turn into a group piece. We're going to be on Radio America tommorow... I'm so excited. I've never even had a chance to do a shout out, make a dedication, or even request a song on radio, let alone be on a whole entire show! I think everyone on the team is going to be there, as well as Stef, ofcourse (we love you, Stef).
I'll do another update tommorow. But now, I have to get some sleep. So that I can bo so fresh and so clean, and have my gameplan tight for the weekend. Peas.

What the Dog Did

2006-06-11T17:44:00.000-05:00

hookah in the back yard
heats up mango infused
molasses that sticks to
curls of tobacco
Vita searches for
signs of life in the tall grass
sniffs out the
smell of fruit and then
charcoal chars the
green lawn.

Blueblack

2006-06-11T17:42:00.000-05:00

our children will wrap
malayalam and ebonics
around blueblack tongues.
invent a language
they share secrets in,
lull their fears to sleep
with their singsong words.
long after you and i
turn into molten leaves
our blueblack children
will plant trees
that filter through the gold
of every sunset
and they will
share secrets in a language
that has settled
into their laughlines.

A Thought

2006-06-11T17:39:00.000-05:00

i am
the master of the
understatement.
so many words
left undefined
in my universe;
sharp edges blurred
like
her eyeliner the
morning after
anonymous sex.

Slam Last Night

2006-06-03T10:42:00.000-05:00

I won! I won! Winning isn't one of those rare streak things for me, but I usually get my 10 dollah, free dinner and 2 cups of coffee if Em isn't slamming (or Tito). And I'm not counting Rockie because I don't think I've slammed with her apart from during slamoff. But I got this one fair and square. Doesn't mean I'm a better poet, just means I'm starting to find myself performance wise (key word: start). I'm aware of the fact that I have a long road ahead of me, and plenty more constructive critcism to habitually masticate on, and I'm nowhere near ready for nationals.
Practice. Ah, practice. Practices on Sundays have generally been long, and the sessions test my patience. I learn bits and pieces, and trust me, I use all of it the next time, but we're talking about alot of elastic time, and not a whole lot of structure. Stef is a good coach, but then again, there's not alot I can say about coaching until we face the music at nationals. I can't wait to meet people I've only seen on DVDs, I think I would be struck dead if I ever came across Mike McGee.

Saturday Night

2006-05-27T23:16:00.000-05:00

eyelashes kiss the
heavens
lipstick pout
smiles at
personality drenched earrings
reggaeton commands a
sea of swivelling hips
waves of hair tossed
lost in spanish harmonies;
saturday night
i watch the bar babies
caressing drinks
under dimly lit ceilings
and forget that
hymnals wait
in quiet pews
when the morning dawns
and the night souls
crawl back
out of strange beds
for the long
drive home.

All in the Numbers (for Derek Mute)

2006-05-21T00:18:00.000-05:00

but it's only 12 minutes, you say.
and i respond
but it's 720,000 milliseconds.

in kenya, 720,000
women have been disagnosed with HIV/AIDs.
the Norweigan census of 2001 showed that
720,000 people lived alone.
In 2002, GM recalled 720,000 vehicles
to fix 2 problems that could cause
airbags to
malfunction in a crash.
In 1948,
720,000 Arabs left Israel because they thought they
would be coming back.

i
googled 720,000
and all i found
on the highway of information
were cold, hard facts and figures
negative statistics,
records and data,
an
ugly reality gaping back
from
a cold moniter.

i waited for you
12 minutes.
you were late
720,000 milliseconds

Hanging onto the Hangover

2006-05-20T16:11:00.000-05:00

What We Did Last Night

2006-05-17T14:24:00.000-05:00

Choot and I messed around with some tunes in his little setup studio last night. Mostly him playing guitar and me jumping around in the adjoining living room. This week off is proving to be a very lazy one. I don't know anyone in San Antonio apart from my brother, and he's at school now. When he comes home, we usually just thendi around.

Decisions, Decisions.

2006-05-17T01:33:00.000-05:00

I'm still trying to decide whether this bloggie blog should have slam poetry on it. So far, all this poetry has been the result of thoughts idling about in a vacuous mind. As in, I think it, I blog it, and that's it. I don't rewrite, edit, none of that crapola. All just vomited out of the brain and in vomit form. Well, it's not vomit in itself, but you get the gist. Since I spent the better part of last year coming up with material for slam, I thought I'd take a break and go back to writing just regular vomity sort of stuff. (Vomit, in this context, being a word with positive connotations... it's late, I can't think straight). Anyhoo, maybe I'll put some slam stuff up, but maybe I'll put some sound files up. I haven't decided. And I need to have a talk with my wonderful brother about getting a CD together. I must be the laziest slam poet. I don't even have a chapbook. It's only because I'm technologically stunted and can't figure out how to use Publisher. So for right now, no slam stuff. Apart from Audio Files if I can make heads or tails out of the bloggie blog.

Recycling 101

2006-05-17T01:12:00.000-05:00

Cigarrette stub
rolls down the pavement
and is picked up
by a homeless man
a few feet away
from the steps
on which I sit.

Momo Man

2006-05-16T13:29:00.000-05:00

we would sit outside
the Tibetan Market
and watch refugees
setting up their wares
cable knit sweaters
and generic shawls
in cramped kiosks
lined up
next to each other in a square
leading into
a muddy courtyard.
the momo man's wife
would smile
her aged wrinkles
etching years onto her
face;
her eyes
an afterthought by God
who slit little openings
into her temple then threw in a pair of tigersblood
that would glitter fiercely
during the day.
finally, the momo man
would be seen
far down the crowded street
weaving his bicycle through the throng of pedestrians,
an oversized pot
balanced precariously on the back
Eighteen momos
for nine rupees
and a sigh about
Communist China
and Tibetan freedom
thrown in free along
with the chilli sauce.

cotton candy sky
looms over
the lonely market.

On Waking Up

2006-05-14T10:21:00.000-05:00

Humid air
creeps into my skin
begging for attention
while I,
still having tea
with
melting dreams,
elude
the day that
vanishes into
the future.

Big Boomba Ballabajoomba

2006-05-14T00:48:00.000-05:00

So, the event is over. Before too long, I'll republish this post with pictures and whatnot. Slamoff was on Friday, the 12th. I'd had a long week of finals, graduation cermonies and parties... the last thing I wanted to do is work toward slamoff. Friday dawned, and there began this nagging doubt that I wouldn't make it past the first cut.
Chach came down and surprised me when I walked into the Tango Tea Room. I wasn't expecting her to make it on time, but it was nice. Since everyone was slamming off, we had a guest MC for the night from Austin, and two moderators as well from there (Danny Strack and Tom Ruff Draft.... awesome poets, btw). Here's who slammed off....

Stefan
Emily
Rocky
Digh
Chuck
Tito
Juicy Mama

The first peice I did was "The Player Poem". It did alright. Somehow there seemed to be alot of military men in there who didn't dig the dig (ha ha) at dudes in uniform. Hey, I speak from experience, and when it comes to the armed forces, I think I have a big enough pool to draw from as far as an opinion is concerned!

At the end of first round, I was coming int third and Juicy Mama got cut. Second round found me leaning on the old "Observations" as something I had memorized. The judges didn't like it too much, and I dropped one spot,

and after the third round Stef got cut. I look to Stef for all things slam, so this was quite a loss as far as I was concerned. But hey, it's a freakin' slam... you have to play by the rules!

here's when I decided to get a cup of Fiji Tea with a glass of mango juice. I mixed them together when I got tired to sipping on something hot followed by something cold. No wonder my teeth are so messed up.

Third round, I did a new piece on being an obessive compulsive liar, (No title... yet!). Last round, I did the "Habits and Questions" piece... didn't do so badly on it. Since everything was cumulative, it wasn't too shoddy. Here's who came out smiling.

Emily (Slam Champ for 2006-7... she rocked the mike!)
Tito (last year's slam champ, and the only guy on the team)
Digh (the only Indian on the Texas scene, I believe, which makes me superspecial in my own eyes)
Rocky (who rocks harder than an earthquake)
Chuck (as the alternate)

So, everything was groovy, and it's going to be a long summer getting ready for nationals in Austin mid August.

I went to Toxic afterwards with Bri, Loop, Ron (some white dude) and Chach. James met us there and got us all in for free. Talk about having friends in high (ish) places.

Pictures to follow.

Oud Song

2006-05-14T00:38:00.000-05:00

mother of pearl
waits inside the woodwork
of an aging oud
waits to be seduced
by ancient melodies
that calls to
the
lonely cup of
turkish coffee
kept company
by the sweet scent
of cardommon
and clove.

outside
secrets hide
inside abayahs
and the flutter of
kohl jewelled eyelashes
inspires
men to
new heights of artistry

to
pick up a dusty oud
and caress strings
that moan out
the ancient melodies
that would seduce even
the dormant
mother of pearl.

Visits to the State Penn

2006-05-09T00:57:00.000-05:00

moon smiles through
transluscent cloud
i
smile though
web of
smoke
you smile though
prison glass
can't see the
sun
smiling through
the hole in the ozone.

Night Life

2006-05-09T00:44:00.000-05:00

pop locking brotha
seduces the dance floor
i've got two left
feet
but I won't give
you
baby mama drama rama
I'll stand in a corner
do your
cornrows
on your downtime
and sing carnatic hymns
that you don't understand
but tonight
your feet speak with each other
comprehend
the silent messages
your arms stiffly whisper
and the bassline hums through the
floorboards

The Big 01

2006-04-28T16:07:00.000-05:00

Here it is. Blogs are wonderful, but at my previous blog home, haters wanted to patrol my blog like Nepali gurkhas. Funny that people carry around hate and ill will like it's precious: to me, it's a hot potato. The sooner you let go of it, the less it'll burn you.

I know people right now that are charred to a crisp.

I'm not about to lie. I have a few burns here and there. Some are second and third degree, but hate is ugly and it eats you up more than it affects those that you harbor the feeling for.
Anyhow,
the fact that this is my first posting on blogger is in the air, floating around, threatening to burst like a raincloud if I don't mention it. So I did. There you go.
Thus ends my first bloggie blog.