The fan whirs above me,
the T-shirt on the drier hangs limp.
I need more zing in my writing,
I need
I need
I need something I can’t figure.
Can someone tell me, please?
Is there anyone else in this room?
Are words always this slippery?
Are stories suspended from the sky,
their tails hanging above me,
beyond the reach of my fingers
as I jump out to touch them?
If I pull words from a bag,
one at a time,
not caring about their structure,
their order,
what’s the probability that I will make sense?
So here I go.
Fructose
dances
energetically
when wrinkles
ask him to fight.
Maybe that made sense.
Maybe I am going crazy
or going empty,
or both are the same
in this universe.
How many universes
can I travel to
until I reach one
that has run out of batteries?
How many universes
can I travel to
until I run out of batteries?
Do batteries guarantee life?
Maybe sand dunes can be substitutes
if you run out of silicon
and need to build a smaller ship.
Moore’s law loves the dwarfs,
every morning I need the pills
and an extra one for Vitamin D on Friday,
because sunlight does not share space with me.
Never did much, even before the lockdown,
and extra beats in your heart
do not make up for regular ones.
They do change the rhythm,
and if you’re dancing,
watch out for the part
when the beat skips your step.
Slow down if you want to.
Teach a frog to do the waltz,
get amino acids in a glass,
and introduce all of them to each other.
Let them make friends,
before they, what do you call it, disintegrate
or collide with a peer,
to form more muscular compounds.
All the time that I am writing this,
am I running away from feeling?
Why are there no feelings in this thirty-eight-year-old heart?
Maybe if I stay away, read some more,
I could get it back.
I’ve tried that before,
and it’s been a month and a half,
and the muse has gone to sleep.
Either that,
or it has killed itself in another universe,
or it has lost its batteries.
Rays of hope have mixed with dust,
they’ll form a dough when the dust gets too thick
and later we can flatten the dough
and toss it on the lake
so it floats like lotus leaves,
circular or close to that shape.
And when the water drops onto this chap,
there will be grafting sunrises and drag butterflies
while green plants lie on their backs
and read symphonies from the stars.
Sirius will not like it
if you leave him out.
At least, mention him in the opening scene.
Kill him if he gets too needy,
but give him that one scene.
And nudge the mountain goat
when it stops climbing the hill that is shaped like a mobius strip,
tell him his clan needs him
on the other side.
When trampolines have holes,
no jump can save your ass.
When traps have bait,
everything has a role,
and a place to die in.
Assign a fingernail to God
and one to your employer.
of the remaining eight,
donate
four to the grocery store
and the rest to the neighbour whom you watch
through the curtain.
Take a hit,
take a hit,
wear the dri-fit,
wear the dri-fit
and lift the hook of the crane
so it does not get your shirt.
Better still,
wear T-shirts and go collarless.
They will not notice you
when you start making sense.
They will not notice you
when you start going mute
or blind.
They will not notice you
because you are out of the frame.
So don’t work too hard on that face,
or the hair,
or the voice.
They are all the same.
Slices can be wafer-thin.
And so can interviews.
Time to stop the random trajectory of this arrow.
Back to the quiver
you may go
if arrows are self aware.
Grains of thought 