Take off your clothes.
Peel off every last layer.
Squat, further down.
Place your left arm over your left knee. There.
Bend your upper body to the right. Just there.
Right foot a tad over to the right. Lean forward
the other arm straight down touching
the coldness of the earth. Don’t look
at me, look down as if something
great and heavy was pushing you down
restraining your mobility, locking you
with the awkward chain of the body itself.
Untighten your abdomen. Relax the brow,
look defiant as if you’ve been angry
for years, but tired and nearing hopelessness,
like an irrational animal that’s exhausted
from growling in its cage.
There, let your member hang. Let the
pain of the bones and joints led
to convulsions, feel the crush and the pendulum.
Begin to accept this position as your end,
as your skin’s predestination.
There, that’s it. It will be over soon.
I almost got it.
Here, is the clamor.
I gather every seed of noise
as grains of rice
inside my cupped hands.
A nomad hymn has travelled
as a fantastic bird
through an atmosphere of time.
Its reflection is a worn
anatomy of ripples:
moving slowly like a full
moon pulsating on a lake’s surface.
The song and the silence
have become animals
savagely wrestling for
a piece of creation. I’m
watching their pristine
movements from a land
where gods sit next to
man, woman and child;
where we all sit
rapt and perplexed
by the howl of the light
and the course of silence.
This is a land where even the gods
confess not knowing their origin;
much less the nest
from which the primal rhythm took flight.
The covers of privacy are ripped off; the pages of the book of life shiver in the warm wind. One does not find chapters or divisions in this book. All is intermingled in one long narrative. The truth is exposed in the streets. It wears no make-up, it does not disguise its raw semblance. People wear their hearts as an unpolished jewel over their chests. There in the streets you read the secret print of every soul. There – out there: misery, happiness, poverty, tradition, greed, compassion, goats, cows, ox, worship, tears, dirt, smoke, smiles, sun, phalli, disease, deformity, piercings, struggle, suffering, patience, motherhood; and above all, silence untouched by the honks, guffaws, the shitting, screaming, the suffering. A mysterious kind of suffering everyone seems to bear peacefully. This is INDIA. Where life is not speculation, postponement, or expectation. It is an open book, where every act or event happens simultaneously, where the cruelty of fate and arbitrariness of poverty is somehow justified in their placid and stoic faces. In this story one must undress from the cryptic paraphernalia of self-hood; one must descend as an open wound into the balsam of reality. – this is INDIA.
You now must know what it is to crave a glass of water or to sip a kiss; to be so reckless as to flood the heart because it is a crater of chalk and you’re tired of its empty dusty frame.
I don’t remember what kind of day it was. Full of sun with musky winds, dark with impalpable clouds, perhaps flat and drunk in sapphire.
I don’t care what kind of day it was; a day to forget like all the rest had I not begun to count the breaths I’ve taken in despair.
I began stooping like an imbecile twig that bends with every paddle of the wind as if an essence had broken into milliard tiny mirrors on the sidewalk, and I had to count and sew them back into a remembrance.
I plead for the pallid crust of light that envelopes me like a bulky perfume to melt into a song of shadow or even for a single mindless mote of dust to land catastrophically on me and pierce this ferrous mold, I want to watch my holy skin fall away and leave a naked and unwashed soul standing erect like a pagan odalisque.
But don’t show her mercy, kick her out of this world drama, let her run barefoot back to her incomprehensible origin.
It could have been a year ago, while getting on a bus that I conceived of grabbing silence by its throat and squeezing out a peep; I had been so innocently prone to believing that the world was a gigantic bird suffocating me with its kaleidoscopic feathers but now I feel at home because suffering sets as a sun behind the panorama of knowledge and even if it is reborn every day I dream at night of being a thin echo of fiction.
An animal without thinking of hands opens a cave of innocence. It sleeps without the weight of tomorrow, like a burning match. The other animals are heavy with knowledge, spinning like kaleidoscopes of fat. My ideal self is a plant, surrounded on every side by invisible expanses of solitude. Sometimes it could think, but always to negate. It will say: these petals have not changed the world. And it will sway and tremble in a monotonous wind. If the world is a vessel sinking irrevocably into forgetfulness, there is no real distinction of types. These beings we see, or imagine and sometimes become have no name. Like thistles with nameless thorns. Like music with blind hours. Like blood without the river of taste. I see the fur and claws submerging; the animal does not struggle. It drowns like a bean in water. But I still don’t know if in a glass, an ocean or in eternity.