Geniuses

There are geniuses spread like litter
On the sides of the road
Tossed out
Disposable plastic bags
Full of air
Weighing nothing
Blowing here and there
Changing hands collecting dust and
Every little thing you can imagine
Picked up and put in a dumpster

There are geniuses waiting for you
To place your order
Staring at the lines on your forehead
Observing the manner of your speech
Telling the people in the back
Just what they need to serve up
To accommodate your needs
You asked for no cheese
You get two slices

There are geniuses driving you home
After drunken nights
All you have to do is ask
The right questions
You vomit out the window
Getting it all over the car
The conversation changes
To the extra vomit fee
Next time you drink less

There are geniuses on a drunken night
Drunker than you
Drowned in sorrows
Of broken hearts and broken families
Swimming in the truth
As you tread in murky water
Looking for a hand to pull you in
They are all around you
Look them in the eye these geniuses
They are waiting for you

Unwritten Stories

In your eyes I see stories
That I’ll never read
Of mystics, seers, and mysteries.
A burst of light through a black hole tint,
Brilliant, brilliant, but just a glint.

In your eyes I see stories
That I’ll never read
Of battles of devout heresies,
Yearning for more while doing your best,
Questing for meanings deeper than flesh.

In your eyes I see stories
That I’ll never read
Of heroes, enemies, and long journeys,
Dragons slain and promised lands,
Escaping from my outstretched hands.

In your eyes I see stories
That I’ll never read
Conversations going on, endlessly
Delicious dialogues laced with wit
And tirades and debates and mental fits.

In your eyes I see stories
That I’ll never read
Unpublished but signed with a forgery
A flash of passion trembling through my veins,
A fleeting excitation, a lasting pain.

Power at the fingertips

Do they know what came first- the Rhythm or the Blues? Well I learned to walk before I learned to talk, so I guess I learned to stomp before I learned to shout.
So then the first instrument was a drum and not the voice?

Was it more from breathing or beating?

you got the drum all wrong, though. The beat is innocent its like a circle. it's pure. the blues shoes up when you try to make things go places that probably don't even exist.

Fire was peaceful before people started using it to burn each others' roofs down, and melt people's faces off, and roast sinners on sticks. Before it was just to cook dinner. And fire was so polite it even made sure to lick its lips without making any noise really. And it would always go to bed.

Water sounds peaceful but only if you haven't ever seen a person drown.


But does rhythm know blues? Rhythm just wants to go, it doesn't have eyes to know here or know there. Rhythm doesn't ask, "Where?"
Ask blues about directions; Blues always worries about where it's going and where it's been.

Ask the mallet about the timpani. They're not friends, though. Not since Timpani got mallet thrown in jail for domestic abuse.

Well ask the big bass drum; they said you gotta hit it so it's, "felt but not heard."

did you have a soul before you had shoes?
did I have a voice before I had shoes?

like a mallet to a big bass drum
"felt but not heard"

who knows the bass drum better than the snare
that rat a tat tat




the power at my fingertips
drips
what goes up must come down
like the faucet didn't get a grip

supple wrists
the balance in just a subtle twist
makes me thirst


tere ke te
like the cracking of a whip - - - !

dha dhin dhin dha
dha dhin dhin dha
na thin thin na
dha dhin dhin dha

Voices

Young man with a cane

broken back

shattered

heel. 

Freeway bridge gives

whistling

promises

of

freedom

from

walking

down 

stairways

that

never 

end. 

Pavement

too forgiving

to return

the exhausted

to the land

from where the

angels

call. 

Young man with a cane

broken back

shattered

heel. 

Funny Valentines -no wife was a trophy

What can I say to show you my love on this holiday, that wouldn't be cliché? Well this isn't my best, but I hope it's enough to get you through to next Valentine's. 

My woman warrior

well-mannered or wicked,

depending on your audience,

whether respectable or dickheads.

The latter is attracted to you

it seems, on your crusade,

to give voice to the just and logical,

in your own way, unafraid. 

On twitter and facebook

and even wordpress,

your erudite speeches flow out

as if only caressed

Responsible and caring,

helping all your friends and family,

always listening to your boyfriend,

whether on guitar or just rambling.

Staying up all night to talk,

(or is it for the memes?)

Answering my calls early mornings,

to tell me about your dreams

These distances that divide us,

Are physical and real,

but these moments that unite us,

still lay naked how we feel.

When a camera is as close

to kissing you as I'll get,

I better get a haircut soon,

I better look my best.

But I know our love is beyond

mere appearances.

Greater than 8,000 miles

Including past and future tenses.

Whatever lies before us

is bound to exceed the past.

I hope you'll always love me.

I hope you'll be my last.

RA, RA ra ra r

You've been too good to me,

my woman warrior,

for all the world to see. 

Love, 

manas

What can I say to show you my love on this holiday, that wouldn't be cliché? Well this isn't my best, but I hope it's enough to get you through to next Valentine's. 

My woman warrior

well-mannered or wicked,

depending on your audience,

whether respectable or dickheads.

The latter is attracted to you

it seems, on your crusade,

to give voice to the just and logical,

in your own way, unafraid. 

On twitter and facebook

and even wordpress,

your erudite speeches flow out

as if only caressed

Responsible and caring,

helping all your friends and family,

always listening to your boyfriend,

whether on guitar or just rambling.

Staying up all night to talk,

(or is it for the memes?)

Answering my calls early mornings,

to tell me about your dreams

These distances that divide us,

Are physical and real,

but these moments that unite us,

still lay naked how we feel.

When a camera is as close

to kissing you as I'll get,

I better get a haircut soon,

I better look my best.

But I know our love is beyond

mere appearances.

Greater than 8,000 miles

Including past and future tenses.

Whatever lies before us

is bound to exceed the past.

I hope you'll always love me.

I hope you'll be my last.

Raa rwaaar Rwaaar RA

You've been too good to me,

my woman warrior,

for all the world to see. 

Love, 

manas

The GOAT

Winfield, a la Ali

A sight to behold-

still bobbing and weaving, "like he's 18 years old"

though young Foreman pushes him,

back against the ropes,

and in his 10th round now

with back pain he copes,

But he takes each jab,

each verbal hook,

And uses the rope-a-dope:

"Go read my books!"

Then one fine day,

the young pugilist decides to obey.

Quite out of the blue, and into the grey.

Of reading the fine print of books and essays.

The fighters had close family ties,

And Foreman would interview Ali over lunch,

But when he picked up, "Why I am So Wise,"

Ali knocked him over with a mighty punch.

something happened then-
I felt it
many miles away
in a foreign land.
but it was too late to know what or how,
or why
I woke up that dawn
to the whispers of a magician
instead of staying comatose.
ancient statues lose their noses overnight
and I was carved without irises
and I was stuck without Osiris'es
most precious blessing...

It was there... although it didn’t know it.

When the fishermen used to cross, they would remark to themselves on how quiet it was.  It was not like other rivers that in some parts trickled like and in other parts raged- those ones would foam with the fury of ancient gods- with the repetition of divine eagles pecking at the liver of Prometheus they would foam and foam and foam again.  And it was those rapids that would claw away at the hulls of their humble watercrafts, toss them against the jagged edges of the riverbeds, and have them spar with the rocks.  But this river, they could put their faith in.
Some of the village folks who lived on the banks of the rough rivers would in the passion of boisterous youth challenge the liquid demons upon their rafts.  Though it was often the case that wood and sinew proved too tenuous a question for the bellowing response of watery might.  And when they failed, the foam would consume them like the last morsel of prey in the salivating mouth of a predator.  The gentle river, though, would not change its course- it kept flowing as it always had.
This river would transport the villagers away from their hamlets and deeper into the jungle where their livelihoods could be found.  They would laugh and joke as they rowed and sometimes the older villagers would retell legends that they had heard when they were young.  Their stories often followed the formula of a young man stumbling into the path of a panther and wrestling it down single-handedly for survival.  Every so often, tho, the eyes of an elder would gleam as a tale of the great chief sailing down the frothy currents in battle with one of the mighty rivers would come into memory.  And their river would calmly float them on their merry way as the youngsters listened in awe.  It did not interrupt their conversation- it only sought to soothe them with its gentle hum.  Its soft splooshing dampened the terrifying uncertainties of the jungle.
It was full of the fish that villagers ate and traded with neighboring settlements.  The river didn’t mind having the fish occupy its waters; it liked caring for them.  When schools of the scaly creatures would swim up and down, it would please the river.  The villagers would spear these fish, and the blood from the wounds would mix with the water.  But the river knew this was part of life, and her current would make sure the blood would quickly mix away.  

The Racist Druggie type(d)

 muse,

return to your dwelling of old,

sweep away the moss, mildew, mold

remember not, but forge ahead,

and tell the greatest story ever told

goodbye, my friend.

i forgot about us in the end

loving her left no space

for you

but your trace

endures in the flashes

of your endearing lashes

your slashes

i couldn't absorb

maybe you died lying on the floor

writhing in sanity

we lost a good one

anyone who knew you would agree

but who among us could have held the honor

to know someone so free

Isness...wasness

 what's missing? it's hard to know, really. maybe everything is here, with me, and always was. I'm just deluded. why do I still think of her? do I really need her in my life? there are many people out there. how to find the right ones. or one. 

what if she was me and I am her. why the separation? I wish I could travel like the wind. leave my body and float. I'm the caged bird she used to be. my nerves are my prison. 

memory. just a memory. causing me this turmoil. do I even believe in ghosts? present moment. the present. why can't I stay here? and now? no worries, no fear I can't handle. 

One-Fifth Avenue Party in Someone Else's Own House

 the birdsongs rearranged the delicate chords in my throat, gentle as a breeze, and I lay there in union with the wisdom of nature. we all evolved together and now the flocks in the sky were healing me. my weary feet jolted with shooting energy, the excitation of long-dormant muscles plus sighing relief for the ones that had been holding me up all on their own. a smarter body through cosmic teamwork. the sun was coming up before my moon had dipped and I ran from myself. what else do I ever do?

ByeGoneDays

 Hello. You again?

Yes.

Tell me one thing now will you. Who's running the show?

What do you mean- you are. Didn't you know? You aren't serious, are you?

I looked up to him ferociously.

I sucked the color right out of his hair

She has seen my fate. and she approves

he is stuck here, clinging to himself out of fear. he is blind to the world and the world is blind to him. "another one of these nutjobs. oh well, we'll get him fixed right up, take away his pain."

the boy (unborn) watches it all transpire. the fight, the yells, the tears, the violence. save me, he says.

No man is an island

The violence

of your silence

tears away at

the narrow causeways

that connected me to the mainland.

Drawn and quartered

all civilization sinks,

full of unfinished monuments.

And I look out at the beautiful lake

from the perch of a pyramid,

where we sat atop our thrones,

where we had planned those roads,

where you told me,

"No man is an island."

Avatar Ang

 Every now and then people appear who are like a small piece of ice, who look like they could melt easily and who pale in comparison to the stones and the rocks and the boulders that stand firm, beside them. You wouldn't be surprised if they just disappeared, vanishing as fast as they came. But when they stay around long enough to gather just that little bit of momentum, you'll see all the tiniest pieces of snow around beginning to stick. And then they roll and roll, picking up more and more snow until they're so big and tall that they can topple over the biggest rocks and most giant boulders that stood before. And so what started as just little pieces of ice becomes so heavy, so enormous. They can shake the world like an avalanche.  

The Gentleman's Game

History recounts 27th November, 1996 as the first day of the second test, involving South Africa and India at Kolkata. For me, perhaps this date should be sacred- as sacred as July 4th, 1776 or August 15th, 1947. It was the day I first encountered the gentleman's game, the day my love of cricket was born.

My mother brought me, a seven-year-old American boy, to watch the game she adored, which she had played (inspired by her coach, Bengal cricketer Shivaji Ray) in her college days and romanticized ever since. Amma always wanted us to have a connection to India, our motherland. And for her, this very English, colonial sport was as vital a part of one's Indian identity as anything.

And so, shyly clutching my mother's hand, I strolled into a Mecca of cricket. We got there early, with the crowd still filing in, and took our seats. It wasn't long before at least 70,000 more had taken theirs, and become quite boisterous in doing so. Of course, Amma soon began getting looks and comments- "Are you here just to have a picnic?" spoken in Bengali. And in their defense, well, it wasn't long before Amma opened our tiffin boxes, feeding me the aloo rolls and cucumber sandwiches my Nani had packed. We must have been an odd sight- this Indian woman with a white child. But while the Kolkatans scratched their heads over this reverse Mother Teresa, I was being bewildered by Amma's cricket crash-course. Grasping the game's basic objectives was difficult enough, and Amma's enumeration of everything from fielding positions to the modes of dismissal was making matters worse. Over the wicket, lbw, straight bat, third man, silly point, howzzaaat...nothing made sense.

It didn't help that I could hardly see the action- whenever anything apparently important occurred, everyone stood up and blocked my view. As the day wore on and the tiffin was depleted, I became more and more sulky. Hudson and Kirsten scored hundreds that day, history recounts, with South Africa closing on 339/2. The Indian players would have left Eden Gardens demoralized, and Amma too- her attempts to get me interested in cricket had failed.

Next morning, Amma went without me to the match- I'd refused to bear any more suffering. When she returned, a thrilled Nani relayed the news- “Manas was glued to the TV all day, watching the cricket!” Amma was astonished. Had the rules finally sunk in? Had Doordarshan's broadcast heightened my curiousity? Was it a fluke? One more day, and all doubt would be removed- Azharuddin was smashing the ball all around the park; Eden was in raptures, and debutant Lance Klusener … was not. I was hooked.

I cherish the blurry memories of this simpler time; before I stumbled upon Cricinfo, Asked Steven, and opened Pandora's box (Statsguru); before numbers or words (not even the moving profile by Dileep Premachandran) could explain why my favorite cricketer was Azhar; when the sheer sensuous force and physical beauty of bowler sprinting up, batsman swinging willow, and leather flying away, was enough.

Tree of Life

If I were an oak tree, I’d already be three hundred years old.  The last few years, I teetered and tottered and threatened the roof of the house on this plot, and I scared the neighbors, too.  But no longer.  No more.  Now I come crashing down.  Now I rain thunder on the earth.  The birds caw, the squirrels scurry away, everything shakes.  In a few moments, though, all is still again.  I am not the first tree to have touched the ground.

Intricate branches, my leaves and twigs, they reached out towards sun and moon, accumulating.  Now they dig into the dirt.  And roots, the roots that kept me grounded, they point skywards- stretching out desperately, yearning now to escape to the heavens.  Why did I take them for granted?  And when I was young, I remember, how fast I grew.  I thought I’d extend forever.  The clouds, the sun, the moon- I’d get there one day.  I would rise above my thick canopy easily.  That was a given.  I would surely rise that high.  But my foliage, my leaves, my branches never stood that tall.  The older I got, the less I grew.  And now I lie scattered.

When the lumberjack comes to slice me up you’ll see it all- for our lives are written in the rings.  Sap leaks from every contour, and if you touch your tongue to it, you’d know bitterness, you’d taste anguish, in my last drops, it oozes out.  They say if you come at the right time, just at that moment when tree turns to wood, and place your hand there, you absorb the wisdom of its memories.  Not very many know this or chance upon it, and so, too much of history repeats itself.  But pay attention- if you wait too long, it will all turn to syrup.  At my funeral you’ll see how sweet it can be, how sweet they’ll make it.  And maybe one day it will even become amber, all crystallized splendor- am I arrogant to dream? - But no, right now, it’s neither, it is as plain a substance as can be.  Stay away, though, please, I beg you. It’s all poison.

Was it always like this?  I can’t remember.  Put your hand to the innermost rings, and tell me.  Tell me what you see flashing in front of you, tell me what happened, please?