A Dervish musing
2021
Dry crackling wood. Ember lifts, imprints the sky. Draped figures transport me to caravan roots. Eyes closed, no enemy in waters presence. Tonight looters shy away from firelight. The desert often dusts off our aura of civility. That dormant primordial instinct awaits the lost and eager. Feral. Individual. Not a morsel to scrape for. Different from the collective abundance in my caravanning imagining. Secure in a warm huddled coterie, tied to our wheels, mules, and familial days and nights like these.
Silver moon mood, dry baked sand glowing in the far distance. Crackled. Electric darkness. From rains long past these barren miniatures paint the umbral landscape with ephemeral glitter, motioned to reflect the dotted circuity of dark skies — and still, the crescent above. Shadowed luminous companion. Swirling around like whirling dervishes, lost, seemingly forever in light and dance.
A shard-menagerie of narratives, that personally entwined sacred mirror woven from the onset of self-perception. Now separate and distancing at inflationary velocity, the self is to be scavenged by a relentless carrion circuitry — one’s demon-mind. Subterranean and lugubrious. But this dismal portent dissipates with faith in the harbours of hope. No matter how dimly lit. Or transient. That is love. One that also binds community, and the familial contiguity of brotherhood. A larger identity.
The heavens begin to pour, a temperamental late-end to the Kumaon monsoon. A range’s high sea, a voluptuous vapour ocean. Even earthly aquifers that spring through the mountains — streaming jaggedly in their wake — are clouded over with mist. The season will change soon, surely.
A mid-september burst of life is airborne, abundant. The valiant tail-end rage of nature before winter’s lull and fallow. Appreciating her joy, her vivacity in action, a favourite pastime. Camera in hand to capture a chimera of Hawk-moths and Painted Ladies as they flitter and prance about, probing the Sage, delirious in his nectar, and some pollen too. Rain subsides as the sun peers again through a gradient of clouds. Rays of warmth in this elevated cool altitude. The budding Begonias beside a withering Hydrangea, making way, succession in life’s cycles, the tinkerer, the goings-on as one considers which unruly stalk to prune off the rose-bush next.
Reminders of evanescent originality, of a subjective individual in the blind march of the geologic towards sentience, towards a collective conscience. Empathy for the other — who is outside is really just oneself in rhyme and plurality. Diversity in form. Written in progress. An interwoven discrete quantisation, flows of patterns of organic energy we do not know, and god forbid we might ever.
We present reason in the clear linearity of thought, in logic that cross-pollinates. Referenced and built on itself. Our affinity for geometric alignment, towards self-similarity, and symmetry. Lofty mixtures, the accidental complex surface to a simplicity within. The ennui of inert description as medium to the realm of mystical experience.
Ethereal embodiments may never be fully glanced. Elusive may they remain from the entirety of visual grasp such that we shan’t summarily define the ultimate inquiry nor chance upon it, let alone answer it. At best a map, or a map of a map. If only of a possible question. Pixelated and reduced impressions of a shunyata of sorts.
Despite a constant flow, writing now daunts me. Thoughts in continued analysis. Thought inherent to thought. The counterfactual. Critical conjectures, an afterthought verging on fantasy. This banal circumlocution might urge you to interject. It’s self-indulgent. Spilt gibberish in a vortex of procrastination. You’re not wrong. Don’t take it too seriously.
After all how does one begin to write a note to oneself. Outpours in thought only conceal my experience. That laced melody of time and emoted feeling. A natural flowing forward perhaps. A continuous coterminous collapse of streams, wave-functions, of the infinite tributaries of choice and paths between the next word, the next phrase, the ending to a sentence. I am unsure. Let my subconscious and the ever-simmering do the deed. In a sense, let it write itself. Justified then, a confession of nothing.
Pandemic
2020
Pandemic,
pandemonium,
pots and pans and
lockdowns,
now pantomiming behind glass walls
in quarantine.
I don’t mind, designed to shine
in rain
this time.
The rhymes,
they find a way to talk
unlike the man who walks from city to village
only to see it economically pillaged.
Blissful ignorance, and yeah our privilege,
ain’t no coincidence that this lockdown shows no one is innocent.
Just keep your social distance.
Tracking the scent,
the trails,
the coughs, the frail.
Man,
fuck the two-faced gentlemen-ness
way up top.
That’s what got us in a
systemic mess.
Acknowledge the threat.
It’s not actually coronavirus,
it’s the system that ain’t there to find us when we breathing tough.
Now where the fuck is Jesus, or the atheists?
Man, we don’t need him or any of them saviours..
THEY NEED US!!
So what’s the fuss. Forget about him and
the story dies. As should all biased news media files.
Regurgitating BS. Garbage. Yo,
but still, Wuhan’s the origin of THIS carnage.
Who’s to answer now? It’s not Hu Jintao,
it’s WHO, and Xi, and his kingpins, the Xi Jinping’s.
It’s those clowns, and maybe what those
institutes of virology found. But who knows…
he’s probably buried underground.
Hologram
2020
The odds and even
the numbers and seasons,
all tick tock like a clock.
I think not.
The meta is physical, typically atypical,
a reason as literal as figural,
and well, i’d figure figuratively is literal?
Well, spatial-sapien brain with an ‘a-n-e’
because anyone can have faith in God,
oh god.. that’s odd.
But is it?
Is it really?
(I do)
Like really really?
Omnipotent jelly and momentum in the belly?
With age as the stage grows larger and further,
expanding until time twists
and space it self tilts..
faith?
Wait.
Still, inhabited as the ace of spades.
And man i’d tell you we’d all realise it one of these days,
a smooth horizon and a sun to rise with.
But goddamn, this man needs to change his
graphics from Comic Sans and drowning in misery
to a proper time-tested psychotherapy,
a lessoned history,
mistakes made and debts paid
and discipline and freedom in its truest sense,
us…
sentience?
Ah..
aha!
God’s in all of us,
and so is the devil.
Just a limited spectrum.
Yeah I guess the universe really is a
hologram.
Mother’s Day
2020
Infinite geodesics
and love makes the music
mama told me use don’t abuse it
just choose faith.
Pandemic-frantic,
Pacific to Atlantic.
Truth be told to bear the fruit in
front of you too.
Who’s to know what’s a mothers love
but anyone and everyone
because we all a son of a gun, baby,
but we came from our mom’s.
Show some love show some love
show some love.
A watered down vibrational energy
to spend with me.
Intention, attention
manifests destiny.
No apprehensions in love
as the gravity from above always shows us the
love.
Thats the way it goes
and this is how we show mamas
we love you, we ain’t above you,
we just love you.
We got you covered from the woman up above
and down below, we love you,
I think you already know.
Infinite geodesics
and love makes the music
mama told me use don’t abuse it
just choose faith.
just choose faith.
We love you Mama.
Art School Boys
2020
Yeah, now we talking,
loop got ya’ll calling,
art school boys underground,
run around town
causing
havoc in the morning.
The mission is bigger than
your vision of nuclear fission,
the collision of ideas and mind concludes
in crystallised visions of design,
as I find.
Attack the damn smooth cats and sili-cat prophets,
their dystopic audits,
you ain’t got shit on these Brahma facts.
Relax. In fact, your science needs a shift,
i’m yawning,
maybe some faith in shiva-shiva quacks,
cawing.
Yeah i’m fucking feeling it,
Rumi in the flesh, but i don’t mess with the Sufi’s or the rest,
saints or distressed,
I digress.
Unlike you, man, you repressed.
Here,
eat this potato salad.
I’m impressed with your lyrical ability,
surreal agility,
ballads.
But boy you my son,
just a bullet to my gun.
I bend, twist you, run around and hit you,
drop you again and again till I kill you.
Lomachenko style.
Your soul is mine.
Zoom into this infinite room of mirrors,
moire jogging in an oculus,
so run forest run while I rain in these diamonds on Saturn,
son.
Young. Shining.
Forever, motherfucker.
Try us.
Feeling cleverer than Federer,
sitting underground,
up above like Hawking. Still talking. A life of pi
that’s just a slice of pizza strings
with infinite curvature,
here to serve ya 5 dollar lemonade
with philosopher-grade piss.
But we don’t hiss,
motherfucker.
Mentally unpopular, oculus binoculars as seen through
quantum monocular glockulars.
Yeah hah.. Google that shit motherfucker.
You won’t find a hit.
Value
2019
In here
there are
doors,
and more to
choose from.
To stay
roomed
in
choices of
uncertain
voice.
Who within
is one?
A decision now
became every
curtain,
to unwind.
Lived in.
Greener
pastures by
riverside.
Streams of silver
light in glitter.
With every sill
one found
dice and eyes.
See gently through
the window.
You will find
today
money always
wins.
Shelter above my head
2019
Borrowed words,
black boxes and
vacation T-shirts.
Bollywood and
hip hop,
kicks,
flicks and rings.
What to do with this
mix?
Fix it?
Quick-fix bits
and fit-king roots,
crowns,
coins
and portraits.
A stature in nature.
A statue of strings.
Zero to go
with myths
and a white house
on the screen.
Past in future.
Future in furniture?
The gift of presence,
sense,
choice and
food to eat,
shelter
above my
head.
Ultraviolet
2019
A year of ultraviolet.
In this verse,
you and I,
looking past the
night sky
to see
stars
as
they
are.
Theoretical Artist
2019
This search for
god,
a never ending quest
of riddles,
puddles,
madness,
multiplicity. A little bit of
clarity.
Then sadness.
Today
maybe the worlds
going to a
better
place.
Real as dirt.
Dazed and confused.
Deepened, turfed.
I’m not the answer, man.
I’m the question
kind.
And these endless
joints have gotten
me to a point
that there’s holes in
all my
clothes.
Storm
2019
Somewhere in Rhode Island,
an island unto itself.
Away from Providence, it dances left,
right, left, right;
Left is a sketchy memory.
Faded the colours may be.
A swing in motion.
Stars, tides and the ocean.
Atlantis alas breathes its last.
Breathe
The Box
2019
A no boundary proposal,
Euclidean first
then Lorentzian.
First,
back and forth,
geometry like shuttle
clocks.
Sum over histories,
imagination.
Sport.
What’s real, whats imaginary,
boreal struts.
Who really knows..
Who has the guts?
Subjective symmetries,
all but constant.
Grey-layered
mystery,
and zero’s momentum.
And
back again
the same way.
Ever-dimensional in
tensional integrity.
Adapt and sway
and
many a void decimal place.
Just particles and
waves,
in fractal fields.
A rusked spectre
that’s spiked like
forever.
Sunset eclipsed the
universe,
a little bit divine.
Too few are the
galaxies that collide.
A night sky with dancing lights.
An illusion’s movement, bound,
delight.
Swirl
2019
Perspective in place,
time sees to perceive.
Now unfurling,
reasons to be.
A swathe of pipes,
who knows, who’s eyes?
A roof unto life,
with an “I” to
define.
She sighed in relief;
a breath to all kind,
to hope and to dream,
and one to
breathe.
Weaving in
strings of memory.
Pre-ramble
2019
What to do, who to be
in a world of laughable acts,
orators, disaster and
facts?
Be your sensible self, I suppose.
Reasonably irrational,
find a story that’s
yours, it
will be original
and don’t
subscribe to
theirs.
What’s valuable to value.
What’s a memory in
what’s left?
People who die in
their last sleep,
surely meet death in their
last dream.
An in and an end to a karmic cycle.
Well, that’s the medium,
this is the message.
From hats of cats and dogs,
garden lizards and
words.
What do you relate to
in this multi lingual unfurling
twirl of culture that’s as shapeless
and reformed as
water in every
instant of
vibration?
A local code,
hackable genome,
a story in every soul,
and where do I
go from here.
Mars?
or where do we stay
from here.
Gaia’s brethren,
my feathered bipeds,
friends, foes,
and
those who don’t
know me the way you now
do.
Do you?
Exchanging the present
for the future in every
moment.
What’s knowing but in these lines?
the next is someone else,
rambling thoughts?
To know is just to
ramble on so
I’ll stop,
and