I go to the shopping centre
market, bazaar we call it in India
as the man wants to get rid of his vegetables.
It is 8.30 pm.
Perhaps he has to go to his
home, in a nearby village.
Perhaps not. I look at them, their green, their freshness
ripeness sprouts somewhere.
I don’t buy. I prefer those
arid ones at home, where
the refrigerator shrivels them up into scattered bits
of raw meat.
Cat and the moon
had a talk
in a leisurely walk
the rat intruded
face protruded
and said “Don’t intervene”
he (the cat) is my supreme.
Criticism is not critique
nor is it critical
or criticizing, critical
wordplay is not useless
nor is criticism. Having been
taught it I am critical of those who taught me for
not critiquing adequately,
only indulging in resonant
wordplay.
Now after learning all that
I sport a modernist pant
and a post modernist shirt.
Wordplay.
When I want to say “regards” I say instead “cheers” or “best”.
Wordplay.
Criticism is not critiquing
nor criticism. I’ll leave it
at that and go to my post post modernist bed.
A wristband man
followed me closely
jogging
I imagine he will try
to grab me, stuff me
in the bushes any
minute
He just runs, wheezing
on.
Oh look
Coyote
is dropping
an anvil
oh look
Coyote
is lighting
a fuse
now Coyote
is breaking into
my car
someone call
the police.
They tell
me to knock
it off
so I do
they have
to go looking
for it
as it clatters
away somewhere.
I submited with great zeal
when I realized there
was a typo in the first line
Imagine mi surprise
when I looked at the old
draft, realizing my horrible
mistake
Noing the editor
would quickly turn
down my hard work.
Great news, they said,
we’re getting the band
back together.
Problem is, I never
learned the instrument
I was supposed to use.
So I sit pretending, quietly
blowing a horn
while the rest of piece
is woven around me.
