cyberlove

these lanes were strange to you once upon a time.
byte by byte, you walked along, admiring profiles silhouetted against windows,
longing to be invited in, at the same time wary of being introduced.
vendors on the bylanes. they sell flowers, kisses, teddy bears and songs.
karma is easily applied so you may rest in peace.
chats - naturally. funny, curious, at times intriguing, at others, insulting.
silent voices wondering what you wore, and what kind of glass you are - hour glass? specific gravity bottle?
upside down vase? or an amphora? or urn?
everyone being upfront about not looking for love. that they have at home. all they ask for is cyberlove, which
has its own set of rules.
chats - naturally. smileys and offliners. lines drawn. redrawn. withdrawn.
but the force pulls inward again and again. more lines. wikipedias on the meaning of relationships and love are
written.
sighs and shouts are uploaded.

then, a voice in a particular lane strikes a chord. walls crumble as earth-shattering, heaven-creating music is
made.
time is never right, the music will never see the light of the day.
still, you sing - -two thumping hearts together, hopeful, happy.
a tiny background note of doubt is drowned in the crescendo of excitement.
a heavy drag in the mind like a rock that would not be dislodged
from a flowing stream. a fretful, dark cloud hovering, brooding, frowning.
you try to run to avoid that deluge, delete the history,
but - the music ... it beckons, lulls ... it is magic. love downloaded.

one fine morning,
you enter the lane again looking for one silent voice.
deserted. music has stopped. sleeping messengers, empty mail boxes, signals stuck on red.
pictures transformed into question marks. ghosts of smileys.
these lanes are strange once more,
strange, yet familiar - like a place where you once lived,
played and laughed. now, just another movie- set
abandoned, bereft of voices and faces.

but you listen for other voices, in other lanes. you have learned the rules well. just uninstall the unwanted
applicationscyberlovec

girl's time out

we girls sit
and smile at each other
she hates coffee but
loves it in here

we women have left the laundry in the washer.
we don't work though.
she is worried her dress might smell
from the sambar she made that morning.
she had showered of course
and shed her mama clothes.

we are girls
in here we unwind
tarts and bettys
cobblars and fosters and
devil's cockaignes, smart cookies and cupcakes
all go well with coffee.

we girls smile and look
around at the live piercings and
brandings, kisses and squeezings,
at our dead capris and limp linens
losing our thoughts in the dense aromas
of sugar and caffeine, and fruit and cream.

we girls sit and talk
of a million things
eyes straying to the loner with the laptop.
she touches her coffee cup like
it is her rosary. she doesn't drink any.

we girls look at our watches
it isn't time yet to pick up
the kids. we smile -
we are girls for a while more.

mirror 2

m
i
r
r
o
r

a straight gaze
into my looking glass
glazed eyes
focus off
skewed lines
unwanted tints
a tear in the panel.
he watches,
i know. quick!
cover that wrinkled
bareness, the crooked
symmetry, it's blacks and
whites and blues
the hard translucence
and pallid uselessness
away from
that prickly glint.
gloss over with a few more
coats of color or
a tilted angle. but
his eyes wander

off focus
lines skewed
crisscrossed and
purplish. red stained
and tints unwanted
a crack in the panel.
she watches,
he knows.
just another
reflection.

tele-vision

they watch her every day
at six p.m.
sometimes they try to wait for her
but things don't always happen
according to plan,
theirs or hers or yours.

most days she is showered
and relaxed after work.
she has a glass of wine and a snack with her
as she settles into that bubble chair.

they love it when she laughs at their jokes
or cries at their pain.
but they wonder if she can hear them
worry about her. like when that jerk
superpoked her in front of the fireplace.

the rug burned that night
for a while they thought she was gone.
such was her color and her eyes.
then he stopped coming and she was back in that chair.
hugging a pillow, nursing her wine.

some days she stares at them so hard
with acid eyes
that they think the lines would dissolve
and merge and mingle.
that barriers of thought and vision
will break and remantle it all.

so they watch her every day
at six p.m.
knowing, seeing, listening.

club

beat
of the
tulip bud
open up,
slowly
shyly
beat
of the sun
rise slowly
frankly,
beat
of the stars
winking
twinkle twinkle twinkle
beat of
the river
languish
sashay
sway of bodies
beat of breaths
haze of smoke,
fruity, flowery
entranced.
apathetic
arrogant
loving living
all-feeling
unfeeling
hypnotic.
beat
of the waves
meeting up
with the moon
slow building
up of madness
and heartbeats.
a far away cry prayer
deep and long mournful
and quiet
beat
of life on again

frenzied moves, whirling, flashing lights, burning rays.
rainbow beats. hungry lips hungrier hands tide-like senses
beat of the heart voice of hips race of planets shooting comets
beat of a cataract raging rushing not bothered with a happy ending
panic mayhem rise of tempo grabbing brains crescent to full brighter and faster stretched bows taut strings
tired nerves toxic distrust twisted logic jaded veins goodness confused skeleton gods vampire nightingales
suicidal artists bloodied sneaky suns ghostly moons carnal tulips baby witches smirking devils swirling lotus
eyes…wax. and wane........hypnotic

beat
of silence. stillness.
death.
beat...

beat of life
born again
beat
of leaves
shake
shiver
tremble
silent
ecstasy.
beat. beat.
beat...
hypnotic.