These are notes.
A telescope to minutia.
Eggs on the frying pan;
A whiskey slap without the whiskey.
This is a slow, full-footed walk;
the blue Himalayan sky,
The ghost of the Ganga—sanctified and polluted.
A portrait of self
a reconciliation of Either/Or.
Day to day to dissection
of dingy dogmas.
No, not propaganda
of the ideal, scripted, fear-mongering mind–
But a solar powered festival of lights.
Concentric circles and the details of clouds.
The robe of an ascetic and a childhood painting.
Invocation, Resurrection, Resolution
and Primary colors.
This is a beehive,
the words are the hungry bees themselves
mining the ichor
from the minutes—
those open pores of the bodies of days.
The flesh formed from the poetry of rhythm,
cracked eggs leaking yellow