Epiphany #2

I think I just hate the idea of any culture that I can call my own. I would rather explore the whole world with eyes of a curious stranger, than have my curiosity bound by heritage.

The India I now love is distant and glowing. I see it from behind a glass wall that tilts the light, makes it more luminous and the sights more foreign.

Up close, now in the house of my hosts who are also like me removed geographically, where I can look into the patterns, and see myself part of it, tied by birth to it. I hate it.

Thisiswhathappenswheniwritewithoutpausingpt2

As the silent Heroine fell to the ground
With a Silent O pressed on her lips
In static expression medley and confession
The notes rung and rebound
Round the black and white TV towns
Where the dogs are silent
And the children chained
And the wives are smiling
And the husbands delayed
RUSHES! The voice of media
In your black and white newspaper
In static expression medley and confession
That roll,
the informed eyes that hold the distant gaze
where lies the parking ticket
(In hand a movie ticket)
With Silent Os pressed on their lips.

This is what happens when I write without stopping.

Not because there was a single epitaph
Smiling death glow
crumpled petal
of scratched color

Not because there was a single stream
of lucid consciousness
that filtered through
the reflected light

Did I look up and sigh.