CROSSING THE INTERNATIONAL DATELINE BY AIR

I’M BLACK, BLACK IN MY CORE
THOUGH ONE EYE OF LIGHT
peers inside of me.

THE WAVES OF BLACKNESS
E
N
T
E
R
and return
in the same instant.

The blackness inside a salmon
or a root of peyote.

My shudders are decency and indecency
interpenetrating
like wisdom and compassion.
LIBERATION IS
ONE
SINGLE
FREEDOM,
or not,
it is not moving pictures
not big time sports
not the technicolor terrorism
of consumption
on the glittering screen
in the back of the seat
in front of me.

* * *

DANCING ON SNAKES’ HEADS
MOVING
through
my
life
in
these
airports.

* * *

E
V
E
R
Y
BEING
is a babe
on death row
even the worms building
missiles.

THE BUTTERFLY GARDEN IN KUALA LUMPUR

MY
SLOW-FLAPPING
HEART
FLIES
where
floating lights
of butterflies
by the waterfall
leave
me
high.

High
in this butterfly enclosure,
I
love
you
beside me
in your green and damson saree.

SILVER BREAKERS OF THE INDIAN OCEAN

TAGORE MIGHT HAVE BODY SURFED
on these tall silver breakers
where
frightened
ghost-white crabs
streak
for their holes
in steamy sunlight.

MANGOS AND PLASTIC

FORTUNATE TAGORE,
with his inner life of gardens
and paths
under
mangos.
My life
is eagles, and cars,
and mountains,
and plastic trash
that scatters cracked
and smiling faces.

DAMP LIPS

PLASTIC TRASH BLOWING
in the rubble
is
new
shapes
of leaves.
The heap being muzzled
by the cow’s thoughtful lips
might
be
an
ant hill.

LUXURY AT FISHERMAN’S COVE

WHAT NERVE IT TAKES
to realize how hideous
AND
GLORIOUS
this life
is:
life eating life,
and the lapis lazuli kingfisher
hovers
over
the
crystal
pool
as we float on a sea
of petroleum.

NAGARHOLE NATIONAL PARK

ONCE THIS LUMINOUS RED-SILVER CLAY,
alight with the sun of India,
performed in the sex dance
of
ancient
stars.
Our car
jogs
past dark deer
peering from the shade
of teak trees and brush
while a jungle fowl
preens his green-black tail
for his ladies.

* * *

THE
ELEPHANT
CHARGES,
shrieking in rage,
and our aged guide,
the Anglo-Indian colonel,
shakes one finger
out the car window.
“Stop!”
he shouts to his “old friend”
and she does
and she stares
short-sightedly
from wrinkled eye bags
AND
SHE
TURNS
AWAY
from us,
then swings back
and bellows
a high-pitched trumpet blast,
and shuffles
away sideways
into the swinging branches.

* * *

BY THE LAKE
a white headed
eagle
glides over
as
we
sip
sugared instant coffee.

Nagarhole Park, Karnataka

NINE ELEPHANTS

LIKE ANGELS BATHING
ears and tusks
in a deep forest pool
at
T
W
I
L
I
G
H
T,

I love you

HERE IT IS:

IF PADRAIC COLLUM’S SOUL
is anywhere
it is in this forest
with this herd
of elephants eating
branches,
and the spotted deer,
and the tiger
in
the
twilight
leaving her
huge paw print
in gray clay
of the lake bed.

WORKERS WALKING FROM TEMPLE TO THE FIELDS

THERE IS A GARDEN OF FLOATING COLORS,
and the smell of sandalwood,
the fragrant rice of imagination
behind
the red and yellow dots
between their eyes,
after they stop for pujah
in the temple.

I imagine
damp earth, pebbles,
and the crunch of leaves
on the sensitive
soles of their feet.

SOMETHING OF INDIA

on the plane again

ROARING ON THE RUNWAY, AND BEGINNING
TO RACE
PAST THE GREEN HILLS,
raindrops on the porthole,
while I remember the sacred cow
smiling blithely
in the sweaty rush
of the evening crowd
at the Madras train station.
She adores the smell of shit
in the air
and the excitement of human mammals
coming together
in fumes
and smoky light.

Not moving pictures,
not big-time sports
not the technicolor terror
of consumption

* * *

Now
uniformed women make
precise
smiling faces
on a glittery
screen
before my eyes.


Wheels lift
with a bump.