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Friday, October 16, 2015

Do Not Deny The Wretchedness

When I was a little girl – a tween?

And it rained on lazy evenings

I would run outside in my petticoat

And invite my mom along to play

In the puddles with me – 1, 2, 3.

Somehow she rarely ever joined in these

Trying harder instead to entice me

Into returning inside, to promises,

Of food or some such sundry

Entertainment – a bribe essentially.

I hearken back to this old memory

Because suddenly I feel the itch to be

Standing barefoot, soaking the vitality

Of that moment. The mud, the breeze

The unrelenting patter was, to me, almost therapy.


Ma. I may need some therapy.

Just come feel the earth loosen under your feet.

Do not deny the wretchedness,

Which we blame upon the drought in our hearts;

We all long to be loved, but we need to be free.

Friday, September 11, 2015

why I rejected your friend request

This one is for my friends
Who wonder where i’ve been
Hiding – just out of their sight
Or deep in the funkhouse

I measure my worth like I
Measure my days – sometimes
I don’t fully inhabit the person in
the images I show to the world

On such days when it takes a little more,
I turn to tea or toast or poetry
But sometimes I must sit down and
Confront some dizzying questions

I think my face rather ugly then
I look lost and slow and chubby
So my focus shifts to better expression
As soon as I am reminded of this

It is not for me, not, certainly,
In this lifetime, to live up to your ideals
But maybe once I start controlling
My facial expressions -  I’ll say hello


Wake up calls work for
those who are asleep, and not
for us who keep our eyes closed

wilfully explaining away
every lost opportunity
as one that never was found

what does it mean to
stand up for myself
and discount the doubt for a minute

to take a clean confident plunge
into the unknown depths
it could be beautiful

it could mean wishing i’d
done it sooner and better
it could mean learning a lesson

but what i will never know by crawling
back under my own oppression
i will never know at all.

Too many times

Too many times
It has happened that you overreach
And bring to ruins a carefully
Calibrated reality

It is no longer allowed 
to look the other way
As the constant friction remoulds
your differences into opacity

Surely there's more to understand
Perhaps the hour is not now
Perhaps this is all you will have
And other things may begin to matter.

shed your sticky angst
But before you walk away lighter
put down these words in a cool, dry place

a poem is a safekeeper

Friday, October 11, 2013


I ate half a bird yesterday
and it (the eating, not the bird)
led me to contemplate,
if poems are gentle, compassionate?

Let me explain, I stake
no claim in kindness banks;
but death is not always,
a matter of unkindness

And we are trapped in 
bodies flawed. The goat it
bleats, the cows fidget
And I will never figure out a widget.

Are we vulnerable to precision?
The killing machine is the same for me
and you and all the animals
(do you think they think they're free?)

I've toed the line of agency to 
practice the art of the possible.
Still the world has failed to well show me
how bacon can be the smell of evil.

Sunday, July 21, 2013


Trust slipped loose, and the shingles
sprinkled like salt on the open wound.

One by one all day we hear
the faultlines crack and wait, look around;

for the crash that will always take you by surprise.

Thursday, June 06, 2013

Outside The Box

It gets stranger in the night,
a time of cold, suspended sight.
the nub of my wrist in your strong embrace,
and the taste of summer rain.

We burn by the candle's wick,
drown in the swirling intrigue.
You hold me by the nape of my neck
and fear chokes my gullet.

Strangers love like stowaways,
hungry and funny by turns.
Hysterical. The red is from the wine.
Oh, but some of it is mine.

I bear no scars from secret trysts;
I play well known outsider's tricks.
I go where strange friendships are found,
and return like clay, unmade.

Break your own heart and mourn it well;
the love of self is a lesson in hell. 
And tortured souls arrive at the place, 
none too soon and a little too late.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Words don't count for much, except when they come along like this

The Crime is Never Perfect, Jean Baudrillard

To contemplate our face would be madness, since we would no longer have a secret for ourselves, and would therefore be wiped out by transparence.

The mirror does not give me my true appearance. I only know myself in reflection, such as inside me I will never be. But it is like this for every object, that only comes to us definitively altered, including upon the screen of our brain. All things thus offer themselves without hope of being anything other than the illusion of themselves. And it's good this way.

Luckily the objects that appear to us have always already disappeared. Happily nothing appears to us in real time, any more than the stars in the night sky. If the speed of light were infinite, all the stars in the universe would behere at once -- in real time -- and the vault of the sky would be of an unbearable incandescence. No more night -- perpetual day. Happily nothing takes place in real time, otherwise we would be subjected, through information, to thelight of all events, and the present would be of an unbearable incandescence. Happily we live in the mode of a vital illusion, in the mode of an absence, of an irreality, a non-immediacy of things. Happily all things, the world and others, come to us definitively altered. Happily nothing is instantaneous, nor simultaneous, nor contemporaneous. Happily reality doesn't take place.Thankfully the crime is never perfect.

Monday, December 12, 2011

The Business of Theatre in the Attention Economy

Last weekend I watched a Hindi play. Although I’m very interested in theatre activity, my work hours and time management prevent me from watching all the plays I would like to. But last weekend, I watched the same play, twice, Saturday and Sunday.
Several years ago, or what feels like it, I could contemplate the world for hours, drifting between incomprehension and acceptance. But it doesn't really bother me that I can hardly sit still without having to resort to using the internet, or a phone to constantly re-engage and connect with other living elements of my world.
Somewhere I read, a guy had correctly pointed out that we now live in the attention economy where human attention is a scarce commodity. Our reserves of attention and attention spans are getting shorter and shorter, the further we’re exposed to instant gratification and an assault of data and information every way we turn. So something that holds our attention for really long is what will be prosperous in this economy.
So when the internet is where-its-at, when your marriage is validated when you update your facebook status, and most of these public and data-rich activities are performed for the public eye, it behooves one to hold the precious and rare away from the scrutiny of jaded, cynical eyes roving through the cesspit these beholders believe the internet to be.
I have been living without a functioning computer at my flat for a few months now, and I find that while I’m sorely missing out on the music I want to listen to, I am getting so many other things done that I would never get the chance to do if I would be glued to my twitter timeline every night, or bouncing off the wikisphere or blogosphere drowning in a flurry of hyperlinks. Cooking, reading, talking to friends on the phone once in a while. Yeah, this is not a bad deal.
Perhaps at a time like this, an art form like theatre is the most relevant. For art to exist, for artists to survive and interest in art to sustain, it must adapt. But maybe the inability of an art form like theatre to adapt to this age of easy accessibility, unavailability in a virtual form like an e-book or a music album or a film turned into bits, keeps it real. And pure. Theatre remains something to be experienced, in the moment, and is no less visceral in its approach and execution than it was a thousand years ago on the ancient Grecian podiums.