What is Life? Jul 22, 2010

reborn into a world of fruitsellers,
the homeless purpleland* here regains its color---
the old man on the corner looked up into the sun;
wiping sweat from his brow, he exhaled the baked air.

"Hello sir, I'd like to buy an orange."

the old man on the corner looked down to a boy;
wiping a tear from his cheek, he inhaled the dried dust.

"Haven't been oranges in these parts for years, boy."

(you can skip this part and miss nothing)
* purpleLand is a location you cannot leave.
* But why would you want to? (WELCOME TO PURPLE LAND , TRAVELLER)
* Follow the helpful signs to reach destination.
* Why are you here? Go to the Science Lab Right Now.
* purpleLand is full of helpful citizens. (Hello. Hello.)
* Okay, bye. Talk to the doctor.
* It is a good land, yes. (Hello. Hello.)
* Initiate a visit to the spinning underground bank.
* The undue process undoes unbelievers.
* Again, welcome to purpleLand.
* I am getting a message. (Hello. Hello.)
* A land of greetings awaits you!
* (I THINK I AM
*  OH I AM
*  IN PURPLE LAND)
* Did you stupid and annoying?
* I am taking notes on what you say,
* and writing them to purpleLand.
* I suppose everyone is entitled
* to their own opinionion op oninon
* onion. Ants all over the plants.
* These stairs look sturdy!
* I can not believe you dumb idiot;
* pack your bags and tomorrow again hello
* yes, this is the correct location.
* To make my day with cakes,
* replay tomorrow's water addiction tower
* and
* -------------become
*
*
* a noodle. Noodles are appropriate for any
* occasion.
* The books have destroyed your pathetic civilization again.
* In purpleLand, no one can hear you being purple.
* Hello. The citizens are very tired to-day
* because of all the holidays to-morrow.
* ( The doctor is in, for a time. )
* I don't think so. Imagine the world after yesterday
* ( Hello. Hello. Welcome to purpleLand. )
* Follow the sheepherd, repair the fence, climb the stair,
* dance benear the stars and climb the ladder toward the vacuum god.

snow cuddles the ground
mimicking its curves
wet, heavy, still falling---
snowball fights are time machines
sending me back on a mission
to DESTROY EVERYONE (oh, you)

This is no place for the tiny sparks we once called our own,
blown to the horizon of the night-time ocean,
to rekindle among the dune-brushes.
There is a great distance, I am saying,
between the points of fire in the distance
and our crackling warmth here glowing,
reflecting red from our faces.
In this black night there is no distance
but that of a handspan and an earsreach.

i'll get the rope
no no no no no no no no no
tilted head

inching finger

reach between seat cushions

laughing in handcuffs (which i remember however
i forget what) "three bones" (means but)
when you are all gone---
when even the plants have abandoned me---
I will be the last one to sigh;
I will wash everything away. (The final mind ...

Have I approached capacity
for new ideas? Am I done?

dreams serve us well, bringing us back
to the fears and wishes of our buried ancients
and waking, we take on the weight again,
a thousand pushing uphill toward the empty sky
a single self falling in primal loss of the i*-sense
and rapidly comprehending the hugeness of the Earth
one eye the sun and the other
the invisible black heart of the void
over an infinite array of teeth**

* why does i of all pronouns deserve the majuscule?
* are we that insidiously self-centered?
* ( hello. welcome to purple land. )
** There is a creature with many eyes and many teeth.
** There is only one mouth and only some of its eyes are undamaged.
** It knows where you are dying. It is with you afterward.

the jungle is thick and littered with metal fragments and
jagged corners forcibly removed from the boxes they once defined.
the chill of the evening works its way slowly into your bones.

gray spheres stretching to infinity

electric arcs in time with their undulation

foreverworlds unreachable by any single traveller

We live in a world of things* one person could not create on their own.
* Look around you, traveller.

cast onto leather / rain tomorrow / dripping full of paint,
grey from time spent abandoned / in this cold old house

I have forgotten what it is to be still.

To breathe*
and be free.

* A waking dream---on the beach with paper kites for wings,
* i feel my body lifting into the cool night

CUT OFF YOUR HAIR, gathered up gray and bubbling
to bring down to these dusty shores the taste of clean sky
from-rumbling-across cold air behind the hills and darkness
( which, at the corners, still seems daylit )
through the pipes to your dirty house
and out the showerhead
onto your skull.

Jesus, how you could anyone survive
a thousand years on the backs of paper elephants?

At what cost?
green silk worm
silent wind chime
cool breath at night
warns of a rolling storm
in the dark a million tiny lives
tucked away for the morning to find
an oil so thin it cannot be felt
and so thick it cannot be lit
sweeping across the earth each night
a horizon of dreams
somewhere like you,
where the garden is wild
and words are the slamming of doors

Vine like a house plant suffocated,
you must reach the Sun to survive.

faces were names before language
( which still we lose, occasionally )
and what of it, this great pillar of the modern brain?
is there not a rotten core, oozing putrescence,
that we yet embrace? Haven't we long forgotten
the true nature of everything?

blue skies and stormy weather
, to come back on a summer evening
with a cool slice of orange

and a faint and pleasant memory from many years past---

OKAY BYE---where have i read these words before?
it all seems so familiar.
the sky covers us like a blanket.
they are waiting for us to return to them,
beneath and away, where they are not and have not been for quite some time now.
books can never be reread, dearest, have you ever flown with a bird?
my feathers are grey. i am shaking like bones and devouring you from above.
which is to say,

A rush.

‌

What is Life?

links to:
- Jibanananda Das
- the lake around which are a thousand tiny fires

linked from:
- an essay for humans
- words are in the way

all writing, chronological
next: All you ever dream
previous: Jibanananda Das