>> Dec 17, 2010
And I sold off my poems today.
The ones who bought it
had red sackbag with them.
They never knew what poetry is about,
neither did they care.
They cared about the ounce and pounds.
Convert the numerics if you will.
I have a bright Eucalyptus as my memory.
Can green be bright?
Perhaps. They have the Sun behind them.
The roots have reached where they should not.
Restraint is a play of nervous system.
You may be as random as your favorite liqour
And its a pity that it takes one peg to write a poetry
or may be one or two smokes.
Art always was whimsical, but never sedated.
With a little of all that we know,
and all that we don't,
a violin, little rings of cigar
and lost alleys of Varanasi,
You won't know what you are,
Unless you have lost yourself