Ennui

This is a time to gloat 
we are such pieces of work
This is how we go about
our daily Ennui

We bathe in the Sun
We Love, eat and try to gain Respect
We then amble along
Gnawing into space

We hate the sound of white noise

"This is mine, this is yours"

We croak until hoarse,

scratch until bleed.

We send our children

Into prompt assemblies

to ask for wisdom

good thoughts, words and deeds

We build our castles

And etherise our air

Then ask for allegiance

to our whimsical gods

We broker peace

Sober in solidarity

But hide our rancor

To light a wayward fire

Love Goes On

He and She

Sat across open windows

Once in a while,
Over the shoulder
Glances were sought,

Not completed.

That was a long time ago
Between rushed breakfasts
Keeling over happily

From fast moving bikes
Rushing through sentences
Proclaiming loud love

Not completed.

Now there is dry earth

And songs sung

Distractedly so

Still melodious though

A walk in progress

A smile at work

Still not complete

Have you time from Bellow and Whatman

Looks like you need
A cold compress
To soothe the errant bigwords
That run by your tired eyes
That giant sized

Nietzsche

A couple of crippling sonnets
Riding once smooth, but now
Beaten down
Or does Greer look at you
In scorn
What about rags
Do they stick out their cursive
Tongues
"Read us your random thoughts"

Do you switch back then,
To rabid cherry pie recipes
Alien but niggling
Or rant along with a shrewd
Adapted
That won some praise sometime

Come on, give up now
Surely, its relaxing
To swim with the tide
Try to make your peace
In the bright glow of your
1 GB
Amongst other Bellows and Whatmans

Elizabeth

Elizabeth is not a mistake
So what on a rough, edgy morning,
Tumbling
On a tablefull of stale bills
On a bed, groaning with lost hope
Around a shrinking therapist
Amidst pressed aunts and
Pasty moms
Drilled by starved minds and
Most uncreative soccer dads,
You gave in and gave up
Lizz, you are not a mistake
So don't make one

My current life coach

The first time we met, I was in a 7.30 am blur and she was adjusting her "comfort" pillow delicately on her now burgeoning thighs. Due to bring in a baby girl in early 2007, LS is the prettiest high schooler since Relma Ubrol, and as determined as a Tamandua anteater. Every Wednesday morning, we trade gerunds and prepositions, modal verbs and battle adjectives with adverbs. Her tired body houses a very alert mind. She uses the word "conflict" and not "war" because she wants to speak better. She also wires the alarm clocks so that her 17 year old boyfriend and father of her child is in school, on time, every single day.

"I want both of us to talk to our baby consistently," she says tipping her mascara-laden eyelashes at me. We talk about the earthquakes in San Francisco, her native Mexico and her upcoming baby shower. Each topic is dealt with ease and precision. Not an extra word, just cool, calm and refreshingly honest conversation.

I am hypersensitive about a lot of things. I am a worrier by nature and I am guilt-ridden to a fault thanks to my desperate need to please everybody remotely connected to my life.
But LS has a clear outlook. When it comes to absolutely everything.
"Mizz B, thatz just too many words and they are all recusant.You have to let go. Don't cling," she smiled, ignorning my popped-eye ridiculous face.
Today, I taught her to gently bite down on her lower lip and exhale. So, it's not "burb", its...?
"VERB!!!" she laughs triumphantly, asking me "affably" to be "apprised" of my chapped lips.

Convergence

Armana had a baby boy last week. R called in to say that little boy had shattered yet another expensive pot pourri vase. My "first best friend EVER" was getting ragged by her one year old in Jersey. Ruhel is on her way from Kentucky to Chicago for the hols and is dreading her trip-companion: Kai, her 15 month old daughter. "Recall, how we camped in Matheran for a whole bloody week. Now I have trudge around with this bundle," shrieked Ruhel. I remember Matheran. Heady with new found freedom and with only our strict but overly affectionate/trustful teachers, we had our first girl Guide camp in hilly Matheran. With rain slashing the wits out of scraggly huts and willowy trees, our own quaint little "hotal" stood soaked to the limb, the brick roof threatening to flip at one more strong gust of wind.

But the excited 14 year olds inside were busy sipping elaichi tea from formica cups (I've managed to serve my guests in identical cups from WalMart), shuddering at the alien flavour but trudging on gallantly, in mock adult fashion. We had definite dreams at the age of 14. Ruhel is an engineer/mom, R is an engineer/Mom, Armana is an architect/mom. I am a journalist/with BestMan.

We were connecting after 10 and a half years. "Fuck, I still hate elaichi man!" Chorus.

Chew on this

MASTICATION:

What great vanity
To think that
My table need be
Piled with heaps
of love, food, sex
And there be such
a crowd awaiting
to give my life
a standing ovation

When all my
all-encompassing
Vocation
Has been to bypass signs
charities and wheelchairs
agrressive poetry
pointless prose
Swiping our old
For doll-house chic.
How do I want my food?
Quick and crumbly?
Or thoughtfully yours....