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The plague reveals everything. The tenor of the dead screams louder than the merely aggravating. The locusts come. They are in your hair, in your eyes. Why are they there? What do they want? To prove themselves. Oh yes, the devil wears Prada and top dog types chew away at your ankles to prove some imbecilic point. Let us not know more about the world but stay in the small circle of uncertain creations where egos bark at the moon. That barking, you have grown tired of the barking. Belly up to the I am who am types. The experts, the drivel, the half baked ideas raised above the limited sense of earth, land and sea. More garbage making it is. The irony seethes like a festered wound that should have healed ages ago. (Where is your mentor? The irreverent teacher, aging yet staying well past midnight to help the ones new to art, new to universities, boarded up by white desires to be the only ones. He died much too soon.)
I grow tired of the barking, not the howling of pain as humans drop like flies in India. The student calls for help. You outline faults on the cliffs of prosperity. You shared better times exchanging culture. It is always generous. Often bombarded by little cruelties. The burnt toast of personality. Pantajali reels you back in to see these pinpoint attacks are as meaningless as the end of day. It will all start again tomorrow. You make the best of the time you have not filling drawers with more garbage that you will never use. That does not happen in India. It is American consumer insanity, American vehicles with deer-killing, people-maiming grills wider than the playground gate. The snow is black and grimy from such excess. Watch out crossing the road with your cane. They will run you over trying to get to the next red light.
The sun is out. It is vibrant green from the rain. Shadows are long as the sparkle of fenders mark the race to work, to the store, to somewhere that may not be any better than where you are. The Orientalist bellows across the continent. Not here, not there. He marches on regardless. He captures and mixes time and place. You yearn for such theatrics since the day to day can be a bore. It can drill in your ear. Eternal buzzkill of the know it alls who don’t bother with critical reading. They have a theme to pound into the rich earth that is looking for new growth. New growth. That is all that matters. The experts remain short on desire and passion. The greed to be right, to be above and you don’t mean the eternal nirvana of purposeful existing. You are no wizard. You search for an even playing field since berms prevent the glorious flight of inspiration.
The desperation of the plague wore off as fast as it came. You climb aboard the next bus out. The nightingale directs your thoughts. The poetry lies here next to the eternal sarcophagus.
