The handwritten cards
you sent me for my birthday,
all of them, I kept
held by a ribbon,
a sentimental gesture,
I cannot forget
even though, I lie
to the reader who believes
everything they read
how I never knew
my grandmother as a friend
the seas, Jesus wept
ask me if I care
at fifty-four, shut the door
shut the fuck up, laugh
nothing worse than words,
poetry that sings like birds
verse catches worms, bet
did I stab your back
as a child, or just pretend
shock a friend, I bleed
words, meaningless words
they get in the way of breath
India, I left
right after my birth
by three months, that's what she said,
I, the fatted calf
if prodigal sons
were loved as well as black sheep,
Mumma, cut my throat
think how far I stray
my family couldn't care less
they made me this way
think how much I care
cynical, I have become
a lamb, not a GOAT
even the Muslim
to himself, he keeps ḥalāl
I'm evil, they say
nothing worse than verse
that does not praise illusions
love the goat bereft
caress away tears
Mumma, you were hardly there
asthmatic, I see
asthma in my lungs
in my breath when I am weak
so-called bonds, we share
remember you how
a woman complains a lot
to her son, he beats
destiny in me
my dad beats it out of me
the ordinary
see, I am stupid
like Americans I see
with whom I grew up
you were not there, no
you chose to go to Goa
asthma, if I dare
obey not the rule
to honor my grandmother
no one reads these sheets
understandably,
I cast aside delusions
categories, words
send me back, a child
to care for his grandmother
I was just a pup
even if I had
the time gone would be the same
not an Indian
no, Shashi Tharoor
that ignominious fuck
can shut the front door
the privileged writers,
bureaucrats, civil servants,
Uncle Cyprian
my daimonion,
not unlike Czesław Miłosz,
my head on the floor
even if I bow
so deeply, I lose balance
I hear early birds
for it is morning
in Chicago, old woman
and you are long gone
ordinarily,
I speak nothing of the dead
neither good nor bad
remember the dead
for soon you too will be gone
a blip on the screen
murder me Mumma,
a ghost could kill her grandson
a folktale at dawn
yellow is the yolk
of the egg, sun in the sky
Ramanujan writes
brilliant poetry,
"Lines to a Granny" short, sweet
not ugly and sad
if I tell some lies
about ribbons, it's to see
who knows where I've been
remember Mumma,
one grandmother out of two
Betty was herself
there in Nairobi,
so far away in Kenya,
once I reach the heights
how I met her once
at home in Huntington Beach
she came to visit
decidedly not
sentimental or stupid
of a different sort
ask me if I care
you had grandparents galore
dear readers, eat shit
yes, eat shit, dumb fucks
you and that Shashi Tharoor
eat shit, I abort
all cunts from the earth
men cunts and the women folk
these books on a shelf
left to mold, to rot
as for my experience
you can never know
leave me abandoned
a stranger to my kinfolk
grandparents mean nought
obviously, though
I go on and on and on
as if I don't care
for the crab must hide
deep feelings beneath his shell
of defense, a show
the cards in a box
tossed in with all the others
kept over the years
how to throw away
saccharine love songs, I hear
the birds call, I sought
ever so, the truth
I am but a speck of dust
worthless, as I stare
mysteriously,
at the crepuscular sky
I shed all my fears
I look at the light
ever-present, at sunrise
at sunset, sunshine
kiss my small brown ass
dumb-ass motherfucking cunts
you asinine twats
even if I love
no one and nothing, you made
me drink all that brine
please forgive me cunts
dear readers, pricks and twats grope
in the dark for watts
to say I don't care
is an obvious falsehood
why lose sleep for tears
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