City

It pours,the traffic
 like an assault of practice
on psychological termites,
 like tearing posters of endless
roads right from under the sun's frock

 places of birth have been
misplaced
  One after the other,in memory
for there are no lions
in this place,who return
   to be kings

  Cardboard boxes on the roadside
 shudder with an emotional capacity
       the short, thundering lives, chase
 on a stomach full evening,
    when the gay overlords of town
  smash sleeplessness into
     awakenings
   from the boredom of imagining
 better lives,
    A middle aged man,sits
by the street tossing his one good shoe
   in the air,feeling warm
  and unsound with a fear
     of being asked to cross the street

Early morning architects

Rest assured,
  the paunches as they deflate,
 young and old alike
    disbelieve their luck in
  having the sun split image of the morning
     appear beneath them

20 something days

On the 20 something of November,
  no sooner than the cold wind starts to appear
in everything i write
 with each chill and its progression
   down or up the spine,
      an obvious diagram
  the science of which
        a fear,more than a fact
   i believe will arrive,
totalling the oddities i carry
      in my impregnated womb of verse,
          the misunderstood women
     and children i speak for,
   the trees and their unmoving behaviour
       the sky,the moon     their shadowing
apprentices all putting in their
       uninspiring shifts,
   and men bent around them

    into believing,
         if they already didn't
 that a poem is often baseless
      and i wear it
 for 20 something days a month,
        like a hat over my heart

Waiting for the Bus 7:14 am.(Bus note)

Late buses arrive,
  and it is almost worthwhile now,
 to note the ones that do
    Mornings however,can be worse,
 emptying teacups
    deluged by your listlessness

A bus note for he who runs it around these corners Wooden boy

Peace offerings

But we thought our differences
   weren't the disorder
  we came to be known for,
 But we thought the juveniles
    didn't overstep their girdle
  for a lack of toys
     But we thought they weren't
expected to come of age
         the toys,the children alone
       And so we prefixed our visions
with their uninvolved,honest calibrations
           of growth,of the world
  so much so that they nearly convinced us
                as well..

Of those who come to pass

The breeze has
    a gait of estimates,
and it reminds me of what is said
   about strangers,
of conversing with them.
    they roost upon the shoulders
of the settling light,
 to not know them is unsettling
  and to try is a great risk,
        for they ask you
 not where you come from,
    but where you would like to go,
and not for the first time in your life
    with your peer revised morality tattered,
you wonder, if, like the leaf
    you should just go..

Lunch at the Indian coffee house

So i sat at the diner,eating my lunch alone,as i always did,staring at the stem of the spoon at times as it journeyed between my mouth and the bowl. A woman behind the corner of my eye walked up to me stealthily and started to look carefully at the side of my head. This did not come to my notice,until she took a pocket sized torch and targeted its beam at that side of my head and i could feel the warmth of the field. Needless to say i was surprised at this odd behaviour and my countenance made that fact clear to everyone who might have noted it,including her.

"Ohh..Did i alarm you?? Please don't be..I observe ears.I study them"

"So you are a doctor ??" I asked,not really convinced by her reasoning,albeit amiably.

"Ohh no..I'm not a doctor"
The situation could not have felt any stranger had she answered any differently. I was perplexed and intrigued at the same time.
"So what is so special about mine".I said in an attempt to slowly tax into the open mouth of this occasion that had suddenly opened up.

"The fact,that You don't have any"

My hands involuntarily reflected to feel the area of my head where they should have been. I could feel my frail skin and a very narrow hollow opening, impossible to penetrate with anything as thick as the human finger. I stroked around the sofa and my eyes widened with the shock of having made the discovery which came into being, only after i had registered recently with little attention a perfect pair of ears sideling my bony head.

"But ..How is it?? How can i hear you..??" My body was palpitating like the stomach of an old sailboat.

The woman clutched away from me the spoon in my hand and turning it upside down in hers scratched the wooden surface of the table with it's rear. I could hear nothing, "I can't hear anything" i agitated as i tried to jerk my head sideways , back and forth worriedly. I looked at her inquisitively as the collar of my shirt dampened slowly. The woman stood having drawn a pen from somewhere during all this commotion.

"Now would you please,if you do not mind move back a little" .She held my face from the chin and and forced it backwards to look at the ceiling at a certain obtuse angle,so a clearer view of my forehead would emerge,upon which she proceeded to write something with the pen. I was too gobsmacked and taken by the shock to do anything in reply or even guess by the tip of the pen as it slowly scraped against my skin,what she was trying to write. I kept looking at her face which showed the calm of a person averse to the recent history between us.

After having finished writing.she went back to her table without uttering a syllable. I got up from my chair and headed to the washroom area after having once noted swiftly that she was back in her booth,quiet and clothed by an impenetrable suit that i certainly did not know ways to buy.

I hurried to the lavatory and positioned myself opposite the mirror upon entering.

"Krrrrr.."