The oldest memory I have
Goes back to when I was three years old.
I remember waiting for my mother
To land at the airport, coming back
From Vienna. Now 40 years afterwards,
I look at fondly, how the human mind,
Records even the paltry ways,
That the heart misses someone,
To the extent of pining, like a brown grass blade
Searches for water. The heart
It knows her droughts, it knows
The breast that made her full,
And held you when you first walked,
Two steps away from her reach.
And that day, is still as fresh as
The morning dew or the mist that forewarns you
That it is coming close to Christmas.
Now I know that Mozart lived
Where my mother was, and her absence
Was as blue as the Danube
And the evening sun at the airport
Dipped just as the moon emerged,
As I gazed at both faces all at once,
My parents together, after 3 weeks.
She brought me Viennese chocolates, which
Were as tasty as Mozart’s music
Is to any ear. I would later know,
Who Mozart was, and how he
Died at 35. That’s was near my mother’s age
When she went to Austria.
Now I hang that memory on my
Eternal wall, knowing it will never
Subside to time, like Mozart is
To millions. A legacy so close
To the heart, it lives in that film of cells
Called the endocardium, which
Holds the blood inside. My father, mother
And me, a tripartite perfection. One
Year later my sister was born and
I could see my mother breast feed
Her like a shewolf. We were more closer
To Mozart now, we were just
Like him, a wolf gang.
A little potato man,
The blight of innocence,
And the plight of Mchappiness,
Squeezing out the succulence
Of oil and flavor.
Stretches from Nebraska to Normandy,
So does a Freedom Fry,
Selling the democracy,
Of what goes inside the mouth
– Just like a kiss –
Is a ballot, of a freedom,
Spanning the whole United Nations.
The right of every mouth
From New York to Soweto,
To crush with her
Molars and premolars
The waltz of living
Circling around the same perimeter,
Work and back,
The same Chinese restaurant,
Hoping to god, that you’re don’t
Have a lengthy span in this
You search for a panacea
In a poem breathing out life,
In some weed stoning you,
In some Scotch Whiskey,
That gives you amnesia,
And with my wife
When the dance becomes,
As colorful as a Matisse painting.
You do everything to feel alive,
While at the other end of town,
Near the giant waste dump,
You hear of the dengue
Epidemic killing young children
Too young to realize
That life is a curse.
And death is just as abrasive
As sandpaper, it makes
You irrelevant as the bible
In the hands of an atheist.
You’re just a pothead
Scraping out a living,
Like a coconut endosperm,
And you wonder,
Whether the kid with dengue,
Knows the meaning
Of how little we have control
Over this precious life.
We are just a pendulum
That goes to and fro,
As lost as a drunk in a bar,
Making sense of it all,
Like why in this blue dot
There evolved life,
And why in a full stop
It all goes away. We are
Just mercenaries at best,
Soldiers of fortune
Caught in quotidian rhythm
Of being slaves of day and night
Blinded by our own darkness
Our flirtation with
The nothingness of being.
The existentialist fool
Whose Achilles heal
Is a groping heart
Searching for that blitz
Of light, which like a fire cracker
Or a supernova,
Flares up in a flash.
We are always on suicide watch
On a high tower,
Remembering Newton’s apple,
How it falls to prove,
That gravity is omnipresent,
It’s all around us.
Just like death is, fogging
Our eyes, of life.
This Saturday we are having a day
Of clearing the surroundings at the workplace.
To clear the front and backyards
To make the zone dengue-free.
Still dengue is everywhere you look,
On a sickly face in the hospital,
The obituary in the newspaper,
And even the dengue awareness posters
Glued on every corner in town.
In this twilight zone, you don’t choose to die
Death chooses you, that warm blooded bough
Where the mosquito deposits some saliva,
Drool of the salivary glands,
Trickled out as death spit
What am I afraid of; Hmmm
A spider, heights, spiral staircases
And strangers entering my home.
Yet what I fear the most is the my obituary,
Printed on a local paper, proving
That Murphy’s Law is accurate as ever,
And Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle,
Which could now perhaps stutter a little,
At pronouncing me as dead and gone.
While Newton’s third law holds true
On a newspaper, where just adjacent
To my short obituary, there is a picture
Of a new born, weighing 9 pounds,
In the near-perfect formula
Of epilogue cancelling out preamble.