Time passes by
There is no clock
But of her cotton rustling
I am a rusty tap
Leaking shallow dripping words
May this poodle
Fill up her silence
Jumping through the hoops of an emerald jungle,
a fawn; old lassos of shiftiness of being: tilting, swinging- from the branches-
the clicks of its follies, hitting against the pebbles of sorrows,
clacking like hoofs.
To each on his own.
I’d rather be a shepherd dog.
Restless but, stubborn like hell.
Guttling the innards of the mournful demons who came cloaked in a hoof dust
dusk- shrieking- I could tell-
Wailers!- they were my own.
Every night when he went to sleep in his 6’x3′ bed, his dead mother came to sleep beside him.
“This is crazy, Billy,” I said, “Your mother is alive!”
He gleamed in his melancholic eyes and shrugged.
As if to say, “Now you know the problem.”
When the colors emerged out of one like magic, she kept mumbling, “7, 13, 29, 67, 91, 4, 48….”
And when the colors got together again to make a brilliant white, she multiplied silently and quickly.
“You are missing the point, Seenthi,” I said, nervously.
“Not a bit.” she whispered, “It’s 3089276736.”
He could see himself running, thinking, buying vegetables, dusting books, making love…
“Something like out of the body experience, eh?” I proposed heartily!
“Nah. It’s more like renting a cab. It goes wherever you want it to.”
He looked happy.
The other world beaconed.
As we were trying to make something out of ourselves…
Higher, bigger, happier…
And if the other world beacons…
Have no fear.
It’s one world.
We only lived in a cell.