I will run the distance, to be in
your arms, to spend a moment
with you running no matter how far.

I sprint to get close to you, the
distance never matters. Its the
journey to be with you that matters,
it's never a beat too far.

I could run one step at a time each
a moment in your heart, always
stepping gently never to bruise
those feeling. Stepping on air to
keep that love there.

I could run backwards but still end
up with you its not the run, which way
it is done. Its the fact I'd run anyway, a
distance is never too far to be with you
in my arms.

once dear
if not again

we must be in
Goa when it rains

find a place with
an open terrace

among trees
and lay there

drenched
devoured  

for days

a little rich
cascade
in free fall  

across stones
not yet slippery
of moss

water in
communion
with the being

a forest
sprouted
within

making
branches
of arms  

trunk
of
torso

fruit
of the
heart

now
skipping
over and on

astride
like a
creature

barefoot
over jagged
stone

a green silken
gurgle
demon sky...

On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends,

I stepped out of a puffing train,
my long unkempt hair a lion's mane,
getting used to my twitching tail,

Posing on the Gateway of India,
the extraordinary explorer pose,
took a boat to Elephanta (sans the hose),

and when my shivering co-passengers
had finished feverishly taking pictures
and started screaming holy mothers and sisters,

I took off from the starboard end,
and became the first man-lion to
cross the polluted Indian channel,

surviving to make the news channels,
my scientific name listed as a brand new mammal,
my mating call recognized as a gushing gargle,

On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends,

I devoured deep-kissing lovers for lunch
at Bandstand's low-tide on a hunch,
to the delicious sound of munch! munch!

even as Shah Rukh Khan watched disgusted
from his big big bungalow by the sea,
and as the city sharpshooters came after me,    

and later when they brought me down,
from Nariman Point building, like KING KONG,
I tuned a dusty guitar and sang a melancholy song,

on the death of adventure, love and reality,
dangers of delusions, lethargy and self-pity,
repression, horniness and too much TV,

down in a shower of bullets when I went,
sky like the coming of rain, godspeed, godsend,
in a mythical city, where nothing is really meant,

On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends...

after years of fending Mathematics,
hiding disastrous test papers as guerrilla tactics,  

lolling in the shame of discovery,  
followed by parents' sherlockian commentary,
how they came upon the dreaded documents, accidentally,  

I thank the gods who gave writers nibs, quills, ink,  
how their tales became shields,infused life in print,

these angelic saviours from Darth Vader menace,
famed rescuers from teacher disguised fiends,
dear, beloved school education, I forgive you all your sins...

slowly, gently,
the poison,
froths the cup it fills,

slowly, gently,
the poison,
twirls between the sips,

surely, surely,
the poison,
a blues tune on my lips,

slowly, gently,
the poison,
reds the cup it fills,

slowly, gently,
the poison,
spouts between the sips,

surely, surely,
the poison,
a blues tune on my lips...

what
is heavy
full to
the brim
let it out
smoke like
into the night
that a new
road curves
before me