Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas

a.k.a. Unpublishable Saturday Afternoon Whimsy

***

Jamshedji the Hippo lived in Cooverbai Pond

He was born and raised in its glorious mud

After his Daddy did abscond.

…

Growing up among sisters, he would pluck lotus flowers,

String them, wear them, and play pretend

For many afternoon hours.

…

Listening to Beethoven, he would twirl a dainty leg,

And settle down at the end of day

To swig a Parsi peg.

…

He would pray a tad too earnestly for pretty, pretty Daisy

To waddle over and say hello

But no, she was too lazy.

…

His hairdresser was Suki the Stork, who labored all in vain,

Try as she might, it was a fight,

To manicure that mane.

…

If you’re trying to glean exactly where this ditty is going,

Let me know, will you, kind soul,

For I am certainly not knowing.

…

Stop by, say hi and share a drink, these lines will shortly end,

The author doesn’t appear to think,

But will be glad to see a friend.

a.k.a. Ooze

…

Sometimes the ties that bind me

to this relationship are so

slender, I spend afternoons

squinting at them;

At others, they are a noose,

sadistic knots chafing under my chin,

reminding me you must exist.

…

Questions coagulate around

the snapping,

Crackle with the inquisitiveness of aunts.

Neurons hum about me

I will not drift away

I am here,

I am still,

I am rooted,

I am.

…

Tug and summon your presence

I blindly chase blank skies;

Laugh into wells of rocks and

mocking echoes

that draw the pulley in.

…

We are an advert for glue

but my will is crueler,

Me of the inbuilt blades.

Sever in slow motion

Pull the screen on madness

And perform your last ablutions

in its entrails.

[Yet another take on the fabulous original. ]

You bring out the American in me.
The
roll of quarters from CVS
and chai tea in me.
The freeways,
I’ll take it to go,
gas station not
petrol pump
in me.

You’re the one
who sets the twang free,
it’s okay to skip the ts
and ripple the rs in me.
The screaming Go Yankees
the 7th and 17th
the Jewish rye bread
rise like a rollercoaster
on a Six Flags trip
over Thanksgiving weekend.

You bring out the American in me.
The cranberry sauce
and the J. Crew in me.
The knee high boots
and the TGIF in me.
The
no white shoes after
Labor Day in me.
The Fall colors
Priceline deals
and Dunkin Donuts in me.

The Staples,
the Kinkos
the Office Max in me.

Yes you do, yes you do.

You unravel the miles in me.
The
extra large tub of popcorn
in me.
The materialist,
misplaced philanthropist,
softened first-worlder in me.
Like 5-foot walls of Syracuse snow.

You bring out the American in me.
The
alto cinco and
hola chica in me.
The
‘sup dude and how you doin’
in me.
And I ache for the trees to shed on the Schuylkill
so I can look across at identical slatted porches
with overalls and Ford pick-ups on tidy squares of lawn.

I want to drive up 81 North
take exit 18
to University Ave.
look up the old red door
that meant heat and home
and the overwhelming urge to pee.

You bring out the American in me.
The Judith Lane and Halloween
in me,
the Salvation Army and free microwaves
and sofas left on the street
in me.

I am tenacity.
I am duplicity.
I
cling to you
with teeth of salt,
and blood of hepatitis-proof veins.
My
arm flares red
at hidden TB
that my billion at home
have endowed me.

You bring out the American in me.
The panic attacks and
depression in me,
the love of weekends
fear of vulnerability
and addiction to sitcoms in me.
The Philadelphia skyline,
Victoria’s Secret super-sales,
Bath & Body Works in me.

I am torn
detached from hip and limb
praying at the altar of Starbucks deities
and only bankruptcy keeps me
from you
gently undulating Stars and Stripes.

Only yours, only you.
Love the way an immigrant loves.
The way
only a girl in her twenties can surrender
before the emotion evanesces
into post-drizzle mists
and my Indian birth
reclaims me.

I don’t quite recall
exactly when
I got possessive
about you.

Thoughtlessly, I’d send
you out to mingle,
unmindful of those
who scrutinized, examined,
and split hairs over
the difference between
‘scrutinized’ and ‘examined’.

But then,
as you unraveled from
your lush spool,
emphatically, speedily,
gushing forth sans a crucible,
I retained only
a master copy in
my head,
hugged you close,
rocked and crooned,
but did not set you free.

And now, I
see no need to
share you;
Hang you up to drip-dry,
when you’re so cozily nestled
in the hollows of my throat,
the crook of my elbow,
the small of my back,
my inner ear
and under my toenails,
watching whirlwind days,
sharing damp summer nights,
while a blog lies empty
because we both decided
to up and leave
and keep our joy
faithfully
between us.

The brownie is just an excuse.

Chocolate drizzling over

the scent of freedom,

the elaborate study required of

the menu,

framed against the evening bay.

My legs are bare and ripe for insects,

but the heart hides its sachharine

under soft-cottoned blue.

I’m anxiously pacing my stillness.

Gathering rope to lasso time.

And the nuts they crumble grudgingly,

permitting me a moment longer.

I never miss Bollywood, but the stellar MS

reminds me to be thankful

B-pop is days away.

A spoon waits placidly.

While someone on a bus inhales

sandalwood and fuel fumes

so he may spray-paint his heart

for me.

Hedges nod affably.

The waiters less so.

Oh look, here’s the bill

but a triangle of sweetness

my rich, brittle excuse,

it watches as my fingers

don’t stop.

A bald baby clutches mud

to the growling of her

father and the roar of surf.

It might take a blue-cottoned

girl with a green croc notebook

to tell him

that often,

it’s all we’re left with.

There approaches the

waiter again.

“One chocolate brownie,”

I say,

my first order for the evening.

You slither to the

small of my back

in souciance,

bearing tales of

caramel and teak;

a live forest of cicadas,

a mother’s solitary gift,

you cloak me

testily,

at whim.

Your loins they bear

men’s callouses,

their brownness stealing

yours brazenly;

Your urn flecked with

the sweat of a hundred

(and three) orgasms

and the urgent need

for memory.

Embrace pillows while I

sleep,

tell them my unhappy secrets,

leave souvenirs at the

spaces I inhabit

so the world may love

me

a little more.

I watch you from

the corner of an eager eye,

hopeful, loveful, parched for droplets of

approval, attention,

a wayside crumb.

You glisten,

then wink,

and evilly twinkle;

then shut shop to slumber

or only pretend.

All the while I pray for

your light to shine,

your orchestra to blare,

your rendezvous to fructify,

so you, blasted computer,

can whip up the damn internet

like it’s your bloody job

to do.

Today, I feel like badgering you.

Nudging and goading with a metaphorical paw,

Being the empty-houred hausfrau of K serials

Who churns up excitement from chewing-gum-stretchable time.

…

Today, I feel like badgering you.

Knocking on your inbox with a loud “anybody home?”

Sewing up our togetherness in neat herringbone stitches

Gleeful and smug at having you alone.

…

Today, I feel like badgering you.

Ignoring the tables, the flowcharts, the sheets,

Twirling around the house, gathering your scent in my skirt,

For release when your geekmind packs up for the week.