In this gypsy street
where past and present
are juxtaposed,
and stealthy future
incognito fornicates with  both,
we live like a family
(dysfunctional !)
under attack from aliens.

I let out a shriek
in the middle of the night,
in creative frenzy
as I hit a high
and can't contain,
the ecstasy to myself,
and to alert the neighborhood
to see how they take it,
isn't it, jolly good
a fine display of  anarchy
harmless and enjoyable?
Just wanted to check
how it would look,
if some outrageous
incident happened,
at the dead of night
amidst the thousand
silly and serious stuff
we all  are engaged in.

every morning a lovely woman,
bit worked up, if not totally moonstruck,
who does nothing in particualar
other than living a life
as a business,
goes out in to the streets,
winding, without an end
if you decide to measure it
with your moving legs.
She  is a walker through the streets
most of the time of her life
(a mystery still, why I ponder)
till late night, when the night birds
are out on their rounds.

Some times when I come out of
a hospital after visiting an ailing girlfriend,
or while paying my bills in a counter
I encounter her, an enigma sans clues,
symbolizing the life in this street.
some times she throws a parsimonious smile
like a nickel to a panhandler
(I've seen you somewhere, take this)
sometimes she has a blank stare
like a temple cow, shaking it's head
at a devotee, the meaning
is what you think, good or bad,
she seems like possessed by a spirit,
that has restlessness as a curse.

An old couple, only out in the evenings,
are seen in the art gallery
fighting over perceived meanings
in an abstract painting.
(A wonderful way to fill
the vacuum of life with artistic gobbledegook)
"Read it the way you like
no harm"someone intervenes,
"No need to take lessons on art
from passer by nincompoops"
comes a lance, as a retort.

Free roaming bulls and cows
gate crash  and eat banana plants,
and attack our poor Amaranthus,
eye catching in it's bright purple flowers.
they had tried even a cactus,
with strange pattern and soft thorns,

this street has many voices that whisper,
about old time mishaps,
love birds killed by relatives
in the name of family honor
a horror still haunts dark nights
(quickly swept under expensive carpets)
with muffles voices(I never succeeded to hear)

A cut throat banker, at the height of
his business success,
gave away everything to an Ashram*
where meaning of life is being explained by Gurus
juggling lucid metaphors, every day.
strikingly similar to the myth of Sysiphus,
the banker condemned himself to learn
Yoga postures which he would forget at the end
and try to learn  all over again,
year round.

Last night we saw two lovers,
under the lush bamboo grove,
in an intimate state of trance.
one by one from from 80 houses,
men , women,  and
senior citizens,  came out,
with the happiness comparable to finding a new spice route to India,
when Turks took Constantinople.
We have a hope
their hearts should have chanted in chorus,
a new tender leaf has sprouted
in this withered tree of degenerated life.