you are
friday night dinners and
red lip stained coffee cups
and family photos and skilled
sarcasm and twelve trips to
disney and your love for
avocados and adventure. you
are sunday morning bike rides
and hand written letters and
power outages with candlit ghost
stories and week long sleepovers and
summer dresses and worn out boots
and accident prone vacations and
themed birthday parties and forgetfulness
and gerbera daisies and singing too loudly
and too off key and GOOD mistakes and
better memories
you are constellations and sea glass and colliding galaxies
and sometimes the calander turns
like a lottery and once in a blue moon
you can find a girl with fractured
sapphires in her irises and a heart too
big for her ribcage and a spine as strong
as a lightning bolt
so thank you january twenty sixth,
for michele.

Iodine. Or rather, iodine tincture. As a young child, I didn't really understand what iodine tincture was. All I knew was that it was a funny reddish color, it was cold, and my grandfather always had it with him. Whenever I was injured, with little scrapes and bruises on my elbows and knees, a small vial of iodine tincture suddenly materialized in my grandfather's hand. I remember quiet moments in the summer, when I sat propped up on the bed, watching in fascination as my grandfather placed two small drops of the liquid on to my knee, rubbing it in with a cotton ball. As soon as the iodine touched my knee, all my pain went away. Looking back, I'm not sure how effective that tiny bottle actually was, but to five year old me, the iodine tincture was a magical potion, and my grandfather was the wizard who wielded it.

Pomegranate seeds. I'm sure most of us are familiar with the white little seeds encased by the beautifully red and juicy pomegranate 'arils' (don't worry, I had to look that word up too). Peeling the pomegranate skin off to reach the edible fruit itself is already such a hassle -- who has the time to take out the seeds? They are a minor inconvenience, and so we pop the whole jewel into our mouths. But when I think of pomegranate seeds, I think of Dadun, my dearest grandfather. I remember sitting in a very unstable plastic chair that I would intentionally rock back and forth, testing the limits of gravity. I remember a cool breeze that would shake the leaves of trees , providing some reprieve from the hot summers in Kolkata, India. Dadun and I would sit in the shade of the monoon tree, which cast shadows in a small corner of our balcony. I would prop my small feet onto his knees, excitedly chattering away as he quietly listened. In his hands he held two bowls. One bowl had half a pomegranate, and the other held the small arils. One by one, he somehow extracted each white seed and tossed it back into the first bowl. Within a half hour, I had in front of me a clean bowl of seedless pomegranate arils, carefully prepared by my grandfather. I would of course completely wolf down the entire bowl of sweet fruit in far less time than it took to extract the fruit. Dadun would always have a satisfied smile on his face afterwards, knowing that he had made my day.

Jackfruit. It's a weird thing. In some American stores, I've only ever seen canned jackfruit, which looks, smells, and tastes weird. In some Asian stores, I've seen the actual fruit, but it's always either got a weird starchy flavor, or the fruit itself is far too small. In Kolkata, that's where it's just right. Jackfruit in Kolkata can weigh almost 100 pounds. Beyond the spiky exterior lies a very unique gem of a fruit. It is sticky like a mango, smells far sweeter than a durian, and tastes like nothing else you've ever experienced. It is bright yellow, and a common staple in households. I remember every time we visited Kolkata, one random morning I would wake and sit at the dining table, and everyone would be making a funny face. My grandfather would be seated in a shirt and khakis, an indication that he had been outside, as it was different from the simple blue lungi he generally wore. He'd look away to the opposite direction, almost as if he were guilty about something. My grandmother would be in the kitchen angrily cleaning, yelling about how my grandfather had no considerations for her, no logic, etc. etc. My mother would be silently laughing into her palm. And in the next moment, out of nowhere Dadun would pull out a GIANT jackfruit and place it right on to the table. My face would immediately light up and I would gleefully laugh. Dadun didn't mind getting yelled at by my grandmother for going out early in the morning just to lug this ridiculously large fruit into the house. It was worth it when he saw me laughing, and he would join in with his deep bellowing HA HA HA. Together we'd laugh at the sheer ridiculousness that was the jackfruit, and the sheer ridiculousness that was inevitably going to be us eating the entire thing, piece by piece.

Load-shedding. When I was young, people would say the word so fast, as in "Are, load-sheddding hoyeche", I hadn't even realized it was an english phrase. The official definition is the distribution of power to lessen the load on a source, but I equated it to a power outage, which is incredibly common across all of India. The outages were not necessarily predictable, and although they were often disruptive, they were simply a part of life. People were accustomed to them, and everyone just worked around them. At night, the power outages were far more noticeable. Any lights in the house would shut off, shrouding everything in complete darkness. The loud fans, which were often the only source of cooling air, would stop spinning, and the sudden silence that crept into the room was difficult to ignore. With the absence of the fan, the sweltering, muggy heat of the night also became more pronounced. On nights like these, I would be abruptly shaken awake by my mother, who would hand me a small flashlight and instruct me to go into my grandparents room, where the open balcony allowed for more ventilation. There, I would find Dadun, already awake and sitting in a plastic chair, with a pakha in hand. I would sleepily join him on the balcony, as he fanned my face with the pakha, narrating small stories until I fell back asleep. I don't remember the discomfort of those nights, only that without fail, Dadun was always there.

I don't know what my grandfather was like in his younger years. I've been told he was a righteous man, very disciplined and stern. When he was angered, the earth would quake. I've heard from some that he was proud, sometimes too much. I know that he had come from nothing, and that he had overcome numerous obstacles to make something of himself. He had been rich in many ways, and sometimes that had made him both friends and enemies.

I know what my grandfather was like in his last moments, and I choose to ignore it. I choose to forget that although I stood right by him days before he passed, he could not truly see me, and he had no idea his beloved granddaughter was right there. I choose to forget that he could not get out of bed, or speak clearly, or feed and bathe himself. I choose to forget that he had no recollection of when and where he was.

What I know, and choose to remember, about Dadun is that when I was younger he regaled me with tales of science and Hindu religion, somehow connecting what I had perceived as two very different identities. He taught me to be proud of my heritage. No matter how stern he had been in his youth, all I remember is the vigor and openness with which he laughed with me. I remember his bone crushing hugs in which he towered over me and held me close, almost as though he was trying to absorb me into his very being. I remember how he quietly observed me and my little sister at all hours of the day, as though he feared he would never see us again. And I remember that he called me Diya. In a soft and gentle voice, he would ask, "Diya, kamon achish?" "Diya, choroi bethe". "Diya, ki korchish?" Diya, Diya, Diya. No one will ever call me by that name again, but how lucky am I to have been called that at all? Iodine, pomegranate seeds, jackfruit, and load-shedding. Funny little reminders that Dadun loved me with his entire heart and soul. How fortunate am I to have experienced that kind of precious love?

Dadun, amader porer jibone abar dakha hobe.

{9/23/15 - 12:09 PM}  

[page 1]

“I’m Flagstaff.”

I'm borne-witness, to a splattered human corpse. I'm twice-over. Shocked. I'm doubled, where I'd have sworn, there were once three, of me. I'm the witness. I'm: the sequel. I'm the self that slept through my own screaming, for help.

[Somebody, stop me. Please, assist, with-this.]

I'm jaw-dropped. I'm probably halfway to heart-attacked. I'm trying to remember what an old boss had said, about that. I'm sure that this is traumatic enough, to ask, for a few days off.

I'm on my way, to officially knock, on the door, of the office (which is always locked). I'm hanging my hat, on a lamp, inside-it. I'm hitting the light switch, and melting-more, plastic. I'm crying the realest of tears.

I'm not wiping [page 2] them away anymore. I'm distant, from a once prioritized fear, of a nap on the floor. [Or, a drug-saturated, and dark-eared, dirt-sleep.] I'm considering the wax I'd left, on that dirt, near the splatter-stain. I'm calling out my own name.

I'm thankful for any opportunities to recharge your batteries, but I've told you before of my power outages. I'm outraged.

I'm waking up to the Grim Reaper, in my rocking chair, every morning.

I'm forgetting, "who made that chair for me?  I'm not sure, "she did much more, than paint it." I'm too big, "to fit-in, it, any way?"

"He can ******* keep-it." I'm not sure who said that. "I'm right here, you glorious fool." I'm far-from, and a Good Word Away, from a fool.

[page 3]

"You've spent so much ink, on your Kryptonites. Can't we just shoot some cans, off the over pass, with our laser vision?" I'm stuck-on. The idea's that I must do-good. "You're better, than done-good. You're the Great-Best-Unfinished." I'm confused...

"Well, I'm not. I've been taking over, for years, but you've ignored it with tears, and the salt you spit angry, at selves, far more jangly. I'm the S on your chest when it stands for success, or your second-half, or your superpowers."
I'm Superman!

"Sure, but I'm Flagstaff. This is my sword. We've got an army of angels on the way. Suicide is a coward's [page 4] out."

I'm not professing any bravery. "You've pretended you were better to brothers, and sisters, for almost two years. Your responsibilities outweigh your rare ability to regret your existence. Rally-up, Mr. Wizard." I'm not as well-versed in the old craft, as I used to be. I'm not really writing fantasy. I'm self-centered, "in the middle of," a really nice day.

I'm aggregating all the energy I can use, to arm my amazement. I'm splitting my personality, to prevent feeling so-pulled, apart.

"Now you're getting it."

I'm spinning gems, looking for lost contacts, and rebuilding, a burnt-bridge... [page 5] I'm just gonna need one day asleep...

[...]

at your house... in Right City...

[...]

I'm gonna chop my horns off, on the rails of the train tracks. I'm simply gonna rest my head...

[...]

on the platform...

[...]

and wait.

I'm not sure where Flagstaff went.
[...]

"Get the ******* the floor." I'm not sure I'd call this the floor. "Get the **** up, we're going to bed."

I'm not tired. "Well, you're gonna be."

[I'm halfway to the decision to get back on my feet, before the screaming subway shuttle smacks the wrong-side of my right horn. It splinters and cracks and spins me, slicing the [page 6] lesser half of the left-one, on the lip of the first car.] I'm checked for head trauma, quarter-horned. I'm hoping the devil was bid: "back down."

"Sleep now?"

I, uh... I'm not sure who I'm talking to... this time.

{9/27/15 - 12:28AM} An angry redhead operates farm-equipment (the heavy-kind) with an Xbox controller, from inside my television set. My eyes are trained on the answers, with which, I had, typed-in, responded, to his voice. A skunk walks by outside. I can't tell if it was attracted to the ****, or the weasels.

I'm just about to lose myself, again, along [page 7] with everyone else.

"Stop letting yourself get bored! I see you there! Your eyes, glazed-over, like this'll be just another ******* poem you read, over, and over, again, to yourself.
"For yourself! I beg you to wipe the cobwebs, from your eyeballs, and break a little bad here! **** it, man!"

**** it indeed. I'm too clean to fight the **** machine. So roll me a fattie, and sell-off my spleen. I can be mean, but I hate when I show it. You-zhuh-Lee trip, when I'm flowin', but  find ways, to keep  goin'. And I don't wanna do wrong by my friendships. Want them to know, [page 8] when I'd said, I "love" them, I meant it. But I don't have the money they've been lookin' for, I spent it. Bruising up my knees, begging: "leave my skull un-dented!"

Rented out the couch, before I stole my brother's bedroom, for the afternoon, in my dreams, I was singin' show-tunes. Doomed to sound. Like "rip-off-Danny Brown." This clown, that clown. We still around. Came back to your hometown, and ended up inside, your little blue notebook. Said "you shoulda read it!" When you spat-that-****, the Earth shook.

Forgot to ditch my henchman, as I entered fourth dimension. Words are sentient, and mention, more than definition. Hush up, listen, see! We be the glorious ones, without a gun, but weapons that, from our tongues, are flung, and they're still unheard. Weapons are glorious words, see-through, the story.

I'll purge all the toxins in your mind. Like oxen, farmed for hides, by the shepherds we were finding. But the field is made, of food, and that dude's always been rude. It's time we charge, with-horns down. Buck the rodeo clowns.
Off the cliff's a better-tread, head above water, 'fore we drowned. On bottom-rocks we'd woke up dead, yet still without the farmer 'round. So if instead you swim to nearby islands, start your grazing. Freedom never came by anyone who can't endure some hazing.

Ponds anew with animals
Fine young cannibals
Forest trees blossom open
Spies await behind every curtain

Display of affectation
Serenaded by dancing starlings
Capped vertical postings
Downed power outages

Falsehoods weep tonight
With triangular reasoning:
Past, Present, Future.  Vertigo.
THE QUADROCOPTERS ARE COMING!

It soaks you to the bone
It gets in your socks
It gets in your mouth
Your eyes
Your shirt
It's dark
It's cold
It makes the day seem like a waste
But
It isn't all bad

It encourages the starting of fires inside
It encourages closeness
It encourages blankets
Candle-lit power outages
Or the watching of movies
It makes plants grow
It feeds the birds
And, of course,
It makes YOU happy

I spent the majority of yesterday sitting on trains, looking at people's hands. Never, had the golden bands, slipped around fleshy fingers, stood out to to me the way they did that day. It was like I had found Wally and my eyes couldn't look away. Never, had I noticed the way human hands react to sound, speaking their own language, ignored because no one understands or cares. I only just noticed my own pair. They had always been there, my hands, under-appreciated. I don't have to look at them to be sure they're attached, but I check anyway.

HAVE you ever been so tired you start believing you are the universe? And it all makes sense. Like that one time you were mowing the lawn without sunglasses in the thick of summer and the glare of sunlight stings your unprotected eyes. All that's needed to cure your festering mind is a slight droop, lashes finding their nests, and the song stops. Sometimes, I test my lashes but whether they rest or not, I still see the universe in you.

SOUGHT out and with more than a few doubts. Half that and what do you have? Well, partly you but also partly me. It's a strange feeling knowing something you thought you had under control just a few days ago has spiraled into something unrecognizable. There's still something there... I think.

YOU get so caught up that you forget your body exists in space and time and you lose any awareness or feeling and when you finally return to yourself you notice the aches of where you forgot.

AND admit it, the worst is yet to come and even when it does come what guarantees your safety then? "Oh no, not me! I've been through hell already."

YOU are what you eat. Lying doesn't do any good, as transparent as you are. Laughter is equally as useless. Forget about puzzles, pine trees, or power outages, they're just distractions until the inevitable something comes and smacks you upside the head. Are you used to me speaking gibberish? Tactical evasion is almost a superpower by now.

HAVE we spoken lately? You and me? I thought I saw you sitting across from me the other day. You weren't paying attention, of course, you never do. Which was great for me, it is rare that one finds the chance to see you in your uninhibited state. 60 seconds and ****, I lose you, like magic, my observation told me that's who you are.

TAUGHT but never educated in the ways of cartography, I have a hard time finding you. You aren't helping any, declaring hide-and-seek is your forte and I tend to give up in hopes you'll pop out from behind the coat rack and claim your title. Number one in all things, except understatements.

ME and not you but, someone else, because it's chilly outside and I needed an endlessly flowing supply of words. Theirs is a story of worth but I will not be paying attention because I am looking for you. Every night the moon reads me stories even though I beg for music. When day comes the sun tells me to run because concepts like love, fall in front of your gravity.

WHO believes them? It isn't cute. It isn't funny. Carry me home after it is all over and you will still find, within the sodden depths of solitude, nothing. It's wet socks, long fingernails, and notebook paper without a perforated edge. No time for a quick reading of the palm, fortune is just a made-up word sometimes substituted for hope.

I want to go somewhere with you, but we have to go slow, like a turtle with a purpose, and when we arrive we won't be able to tell the difference between outside and that other thing.

AM I justified in hating injustice? All I ask is that you tidy up and if I must, I choose the Dirt Devil. Vacuuming is my favorite kind of cleaning because it *****. Am I insane because I find comfort in the fact that, while I can't find you, I know you?

I've always hated thunderstorms
in the old neighborhood,
'cause days before &
even during the storm,
strange things usually take place.

Like the horsed-carriages
showing up at odd hours
throughout the night
over at the Frankenstein castle.
That's really suspicious.
Then the bodies
disappearing
from the local graveyards.
Talk about weird.
And that sidekick Igor
even gets kind of cocky.
The nerve of that guy!

The old doc gets so secretive,
he skirts around rather nervously,
pays us no attention
& acts like we don't even exist.
Wow, that's not very cool
to say the least.

And, when nature's fireworks
finally get started,
strange noises emanate
loudly from the dungeon lab,
ka-pow, holy-cow, ka-pow,
the sparks fly & power outages
roam across the community.
The constant surges
blow out bulbs
everywhere, too.
I lost three in the last tempest.

I insist he's doing
something creepy
over there!

I mean, why else
would a seven foot
green guy with stitches
be playing leapfrog
with the local kids
out in the Baron's backyard?

I'm telling you people,
I smell something fishy,
something just ain't right!