What could she possibly be seeing, I thought. Her eyes were fixed at a very mundane horizon. Becoming aware of my uninvited encroachment, she took a deep conspicuous breath. “You are the only other person I know who travels between memories and the present as often as I” she said. I knew what she meant. And she yearned for companionship, not just approval. I did know. Sometimes, time itself loses its grip on reality. It becomes utterly irrelevant, superfluous. Perception is blurred but not in an illusionary way — rather in a way that makes you think blurred is what it should be. These are the times when you feel every morsel in your being. And your mind, your mind fills up with dissimilarities that must look like a cheap display of junk at a flee market. “Is that good or bad?” I asked with mischief and a dose of apparent impatience. It was getting late, and I never liked driving on those iddy biddy roads full of sheep and goat. “You want to hit the city and your pub again, don’t you?” she said. “No” was a swift reply, followed by the compulsory lengthier explanation: “I have and will have been there.” She smiled. “All that are dissimilar are not… or rather not be.”

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Blues on a Sunny Afternoon


“So, your kids never called or emailed?” he said as I returned to the porch. It was a beautiful day. Inspiration gushed out from everywhere. Just a perfect venue for blues. And nobody blew a more wicked harp than Blind Dog Kenny. But Blind Dog never had kids. He was curious about kids, though — a bit like what it might feel like to be a bat. “*I* just called them” I said, as I started dropping the sixth to D. Blind Dog reached for more mastika firewater. “And?” he asked, in his typical abbreviated persona. “They didn’t realize it was fathers’ day” I said, matter-of-factly. “Sweet” he said, slapping the harp on his palm. “Man, you sure raised them well, you know. No stupid retail holidays here.” He was right. “Let’s do another number” I said, “I feel like, Blues on a Sunny Afternoon”.

Corrugated Intentions

…that of flavor grave school
and hit in even as high
a woman’s grey stop
said know the stone
around fender-fingered surrender
me two trender, glaced
youth chlorine road
craved taught watered bones
love all please, just but
truth like to you-you
black fish suspended all
reporter lady quot-quot
spacer the resister
diving oblique stolen hair
marron taste apples
of holy smiled
some frisco, peace headed
compressed lost unzipped
dark chiral sweet versed…

No Hands


I see you are a strong woman, and confident…” I said, taking a deliberate pause timed as theatrically as I could before finishing my sentence, “on the bike.” She was lightly built with an enchanting presence. That North Mesopotamian olive skin and almond eyes. She averted her glance meaningfully, as if she had practiced that move all her life. “I noticed something about you too” she said, smug, completely avoiding any acknowledgement of the compliment. “Oh yeah?” I exclaimed, rather surprised. “You let go the handle bars and rode the last ten minutes with no hands” she said. “It gives me a sense of freedom” I tried to explain. “Plus you can straighten your back, and look around from a higher vantage point. And see the flamingos way in the marshes.” Her manner was mysterious and inviting. Well-crafted like an Arabian Nights tale. I could tell she only seemed aloof, but was actually focused to the hilt. “You should get a unicycle. You have just about enough balance to shed that extra wheel and handle bar” she said, rather mischievously. ‘Just enough?’ I though — really now. This was no longer a two-bit conversation but a high-stakes poker game of sorts. One I felt losing. I took another pause. A longer one. This time to think of a witty comeback. This woman was as smart as she was elegant. “You are right, I think I will drop the bike” I said “but get a tandem, not a unicycle” I uttered. She looked straight at me, now with a Mona Lisa smile. She had slightly raised eyebrows. Mona Lisa had none. “Of course, she said” as if she read my mind perfectly, “but only if I am the lead rider.”


“May I change it?” she asked rhetorically, referring to her life, her entire existence from birth on, using the third neuter singular object pronoun. How funny life has become. The inkling is there, in the marshes of the oasis, when you hit another depersonalization episode, when distant happy memories are the chief source of your current melancholy. But these were not the thoughts to be painted in words, nor encoded in tender gestures during intimate communication. It is when deliberate vigor to that visceral howling curse, which so fittingly accompanies the occasionally entrapped mind, is retained like tea leaves in an infuser. Like dead seaweed washed ashore.hdr_7586_crop

Campus cat

Cat“Look cat” I said, “the Higgs field and the scalar elementary particle may save the standard model, even explain well the phenomenon of electroweak symmetry breaking, but it lacks the elegance of, say, the extended Heim-Droscher Theory.” For some reason, cats on campus seem uninterested in the facts of life.

I’m that…

Chop Saw

I’m that bright.

It is not enough

It is not enough to be open minded, to be tolerant, to be receptive to other views. It is not enough to respect other opinions. It is not enough to be comfortable with pluralist thoughts. It is not enough to understand other explanations. It is not enough to let others think what they may. It is not enough to leave thinkers of different thoughts alone.

All understanding benefits from an exchange of ideas. Society must generate these ideas. One cannot passively respect that others may have other views. One must actively seek to shape society so that other points of view actually emerge. One must keep the plains of thought fertile and level. One must struggle to see that the other side has a point, even the advantage.

That no other view is present means not that we are right — it simply means that the process is incomplete. And that, I fear, is not enough to warrant human participation in this rather magnificent cosmos.


My legs stuck up over the grass
Like the antennae of an insect
As I watched dandelion seeds
Spinning through the world’s exhale

With clouds as my stepping stones
I tip-toed through the azure pond

Only able to through my perspective