I've been watching the ants.
It's August and I sleep in the afternoons.
I'm single. I haven't showered in two days.
The smoke from the incense drifts.
I **** it down like a good myth.
And the ants are there, on my desk,
scurrying back to their homes
with a few bread crumbs in tow.
I talk to myself after lunch.
"Let me show you to your bed."
And I bury my head in the comforter
and the ants are feasting
and outside there's a pandemic
going on
and I read about a man with
a one-point-five million-dollar hospital bill
and I heard they've been sending
direct deposits to the dead
and something crawls along my leg
and how did nag champa become
the default incense
and I'm single and my heart is
curdled and my mom calls
to ask if I've found anyone to make it whole
but I tell her I better grab a
few winks--it is the late afternoon--
but before I go, how about an update?
My dad fought cancer last
winter and we didn't really
talk about it
and I kept thinking of the
word leisure
and everything got empty
and a little bit terrible
and a leisure suit is nothing, nothing
to be proud of,
and they gave my dad a numbered
chip and they let him ring a bell
and he said a few words
and I wanted to be there,
really there, you know?
But I knew it'd just be
a moment until the sun
got stranded on its way
to set, and I'd see my shadow
and burrow into this bed
with a nag champa halo
and a few mumbled words
to commemorate day 153 of quarantine.

Oh nag champa
                            How thy soft silk perfume sure doth carpet me..

Walls are melting
your ceilings third eye criss-crosses for eons before my eyes
and somewhere through the Nag Champa haze
I found your pulsating soul calling my name
without words our bodies meld into one another
My soul vibrating with your touch
my dead weight body coming alive with your kiss
our serpent tongues desperate for flesh
our ripened fruit ready for one another to grab a bite
My soul is whole
My flesh is flushed

This things are made for idling
transparent in their quotidian splendor:

A Buddha statue at the receptionist desk
golden skin, red robes
welcoming all yogis with its gaze
eyelids closed

The candle, a guardian of an aim
an intention that moves within a flame
over the palms of the wooden hands

Incense smoke dance softly around the entrance
like a dream seen from wakefulness
immersive enhancer of the humor
filling the place with soft calmness
Nag champa smell
and serious air

The bamboo doors
from Monday to Sunday
open the way to Indian sounds
and the voices of blooming teachers
guide the way
until shavasana
when practitioners become gently moving statues
and glowing air goes
breathing in and breathing out
daily efforts and daily hopes.

When he asks you to purchase a gun for him-
one he is not permitted to have,
say no.
When he asks you to help him saw the serial number off of said gun,
say no.
Hand back his sweaty, clenched-palm, ******* tainted money.
Do not deny him in words,
this will only force him into a blind fit of rage-
One where he throws glass at his apartment walls;
the apartment he pays for with the crime drenched money of his "clients."

2. Do not tell him of your weakness(es).
Do not tell him about the men who touched your inner thighs
when you were waiting for a ride home from the bar
you were never even supposed to be at.
Never ask him for help.
Do not let yourself owe him anything.
When he tells you that you have "daddy issues" written on your face,
play kind.
Do not utter the word pervert aloud.
Do not make it clear that you know he touches you
when he thinks you are drunk and asleep.

3. When he asks you to tell him how you really feel about him,
deny your obsessions.
His emotions will not, can not duplicate your own.
Do not feed his already overflowing ego.
When he tells you "do not touch me", let him pull from your grasp.
Do not take it personally, fight your feelings, quiet your desires, shrug.
Laugh it off, check your phone.
Play coy, know that even a woman like YOU cannot pull off
desperation with a simple smile.

4. On the occasional nights he texts you at 12,1,3 am
and asks you to come over, say yes.
Allow him to take you, make you moan, swallow him.
Touch him, taste him.
Mesh your bodies like a woven basket and feel his sweat pool
on the bone between your *******.
Do not make it personal when he smiles while deep inside of you.
Never take it personally when he holds you close,
your naked flesh touching in a way that almost makes you burn.
Smell him, let his scent linger.
Press your face into his tattooed back, curl your fingers around his
chiseled arms, his thick black hair.
Feel him, but do not make this personal.
You are just another empty thing in his bed.
You are not quite sure how much is left of you,
but you both know he will **** it until it is long gone.

5. When he asks you to keep a safe of his product in your apartment,
bat your lashes.
When he offers you money to do it, smile.
When he whispers he might be getting followed,
when he tells you he will be murdered soon,
when his tires get slashed,
do not laugh. Do not say anything.
Remind yourself that this is all rhetorical. This is his game.
When the city comes creeping, comes knocking,
pretend it is normal.
When he triple bolts his doors- even his bedroom door and windows,
do not comment.
When you feel knives under your pillow and a gun under his,
pretend you didn't. Roll over. Ignorance is bliss.

6.When he spends days locked in his room and comes out smelling of
a box of magna champa incense and marijuana smoke,
stab wounds in his thigh, say nothing.
Patch his injuries, stifle his excuses.
Wet the rags, be ready with gauze and bandages.
When he calls you after a week of silence and tells you of his blood lust,
tell him of yours.
When he tells you of his pain, his sadness, his regrets, just listen.
Fight him in his kitchen with soft fists and deadened eyes.
Do not surrender, even when he pins you in a choke hold
a bit too long to be alright.
Stand your ground. Stare at the tiled floor.
Never take him at face value when he is like this.

7. He will tell you about his surely upcoming death,
how he is close to dying, obviously.
You will tell him how every time you pass the bridge on
your way home, you think of driving your car off of it.
he will look at you with poison in his expression.
Realize you do not know the color of his iris. Do not figure it out.
Know you are not the only, never will be the one.
You cannot change him, cannot fix him.
He has been a prisoner since he has been a son.
Remind yourself he has been behind bars for
longer than you have been alive.
He has no idea why the caged bird sings,
and he does not give a
**** about what Maya Angelou has to say.
He has fought too long and hard trying to break free.

the krishnachura and the champa

both of them
have the only-one unsheathed afternoon

both of them
have the same-one broken harmonium

how long more the eyes of terracotta
would roam in the sun

the uneven fate-line
is written on the green slate

the sound of the vocal chord is also eloquent
as if it were some  bare trees of wood-apple

around the swimming
there are some scattered scrapes of slippers

the colour of whose straps
is blue

and some tales of the faded sky

i return home with the night of
phosphorus

i return with those waves of the
mid-night that have no translation

i lay them in order

Like blood in still water
You beautifully float through me
Red flowers blooming and fading

Irradiated, distant dreams
We won't really be harmed
Until we doff our gas masks

We'll dance on the corpses
Of our former selves
And be deemed wicked by all

But we weep at the graves
Of all our past lovers
For all the pain they have gifted us

I run naked through the woods
From your intoxication
Lashed by every branch and twig

Only to find you in a field
Waiting to wash my face and wounds
In a pond of your living waters

Dry my skin with your breathy sighs
Clothe me in your finest regard
Sing me to sleep with the smell of your incense

In the morning
We may just have to
Do it all again

By this time of the year (In days of old and times past)
we would already be
                                    
                         ­             skipping off
              
               onto deer trails--------                
^^^^^^^^^^in the woods of Fairview park.^^^^^^^^^^
-
at
    the
          bottom
                   ­   of
Stevens Creek runs through
                         those
                                 steep
                                          hills.
-
We will dip our toes in the slow, murky water
(James came to town)
as the thick, sweet smell of my burning cigarillo
(and the whiskey fell into our glasses.)
lingers on the water's surface.
(It was a race to see who would pass out last)
It is here that we are young; No moss clinging.
(and be the one to see him off at dawn.)
-
That old ****-colored truck with the key broken off in the ignition
will take life with every well-used car I'm in. "The Brown Trout".
Marcus called from the 24-hour gas station on Eldorado
to tell you he broke the key in the ignition and couldn't seem to get the ****** truck started. We gave comedy its due.
What could we have done at that point but stumble into the blue?
I recall forty girls & boys crammed into an efficiency apartment that night
as the bathroom vent sapped the room of smoke, liquor stench
and Nag Champa incense, while the dense fog
of budding lust hung in stasis over our heads.
Boys on the exit living out their tree house fantasies;
drinking away boredom and skateboard injuries.
-
Phantoms of the apartment buildings
(Do you remember Dipper Lane?)
at the end of West Main tell tales of past tenants.
(I seem to have forgotten your name again.)
What does it feel like
(Did you hear something?)
to be a home away from home?
(I've been alone this whole time.)
-
It's four years later and the bikini tree has tan lines,
they cut down the ******* walnut at my old house,
and built my ark from its wood.
Supple leaves line the Sylvan Queen's Kermes colored hair
as we sail for higher ground.
Now the stinging sunlight cuts through the cracks in the wood.
-
I'm examining the border of a much larger picture.
Even now, the resolution grows fuzzy.
You are a leaf on the five-hundredth page of my dictionary. Ginko.
I placed you there on a particularly sunny day in July
when the Magicicadas woke up to the sound of Joe Cocker,
and we both learned the language of the spheres.

The fairies of chaitra
lie on the un–wrinkled bed
with their backside up  

in the hearsay of the air
once the woods of tamarisks
once the hill of paraffin

it appears there is no interruption
to this circus

the toy-telephones
hang from the cloud to cloud

from that carnival
take birth many kanthali-champa

the surgeon comes calmly
to the secret of darning

all localities are totally maddened
by the flow tide of the  exudation

observing all those happenings
the half-broken wave
does awake on the sofa-set

not in the usual way with
bent knee and bowed head
but with nag champa and cd inserts, with
deep reds,
plastic costume jewelry beading and safety pinned rips.
it was post cards and cigarette ash
with Kroger's box dye in
rusted orange.
staining our fingernails. didn't matter. we painted them in
neon green and chunky glitter. we stayed up late and wandered
laughter like a shattered diamond breaking into a million stars and thrown out over such a welcoming ivory towered
night sky.
and itallian food households with those noodles in jars.
looking up.
it was Billy Corgan telling us he'd
sing along.
it was memories that aren't even mine. cut in my eyes.
it was blunt bobs and pixie haircuts.  it was cut necklines and walking on air. giant chain necklaces and whispered chap-lipped secrets.
endless folds and bottomless love
in a deliciously musty floral hat box.
you're just low end in
loving apathy.
and i'm absent in my own life.
it was an interruption so unspeakably painful.
doesn't seem so hard to revisit.
but i can't.

her skin is soft like flower petals
and it smells like
cigarettes and Nag Champa
her hair is always
sitting on her head
in a loose looking tight bun
and her makeup is always
less is more
and her teeth poke out from
behind her pink lips
with a smile
and a laugh
she tells me she laughs just like her sister
but an octave higher
and i want to tell her
that her laugh is beautiful
and hers alone
but she would not listen if
i said that

her skin is soft
and my hands shakily caress it
and i know my palms are cold and clammy
and sweaty
but she says nothing
and so i say nothing
and we sit in the silence
of waiting for the other
to speak
but her lips curl up
and over her teeth
and she smiles at me
with her yellow-cigarette stained
canines
and she tells me
she feels beautiful today
she feels okay today
but she does not really
and i can see it from the way
her almond eyes stare into mine
as though she is digging
my heart out
so that she can take a bite
as though she is scavenging me
for my okay
for my beautiful
but, anjelica
she is my okay
and my beautiful
and she holds
my happy
in the palm of her empty cupped hand

and she tells me she wants to shrink
she wants to fade into the black
as though the only something she hears
from my mouth
anymore
screams to be attacked
and i try to help her
and she told me she was better
but i know that her better
is turning into a cold brick
and she turned into a cold brick
and now she is stuck
unable to move
unable to scream
and she tries to move
as i had tried to save her
but i cannot save someone
that doesn't want to be saved
but ****** i wanted to save
her

my dear anjelica hides now
she hides behind the chopped bangs
that cloud her eyes
she hides behind her newfound slang
and her pile of lies
and she lies to me
she cannot tell me
her thoughts
she says that they are too
scary
and that they even scare her
but what i find the scariest
is my fear of losing her
and if she cannot speak to me
how do i refrain from losing her
she is like a cherry tree
blossoming under the suns beating rays
and losing petals
as harsh winds blow
and i am standing here
waiting for her to grow
waiting for this to grow
into something more than
strictly nothing

i wrap my fingers
around her wrist
and pull
because there is more of a world
to show her
than she would like to see
and i tell her
that she will be safe with me
but she does not believe me
for how can you be safe
when you aren't even safe by yourself
i do not want to whisper
sweet nothings in her ear
i want us to speak somethings
because all we are is nothing
all we are is nothing
but my dear anjelica
i want her to be my something

she is the world
and she holds much more in her hands
then she could ever imagine
and her skin
smells like cigarettes and Nag Champa
and i wonder if she loves the smell
as much as i do

Happiness is
a cool breeze blowing
in an open window,
a burning stick of nag champa,
the strumming sitar playing backdrop,
an unrolled sticky-mat
& me flopped over
in downward
facing-dog.

That's what happiness is,
pure and simple.

Once in India,
I locked myself
in a white room
decorated only with
a bamboo-mat
& a ceiling fan.

There was an incense burner
& a hole in the ground
in there, too.

I torched nag champa
incessantly,
visited the hole often
& chanted to
the sun & the moon
to find myself.

It's so strange how
I can't remember
a ****** thing
about that pilgrimage,
'cept I made it
back home safely
with my clothing
smelling
like sweet ****.

I'm going to torch up some nag champa,
turn the lights down low
and indulge in some ashtanga.
Join me.

Rilke whispers to me…sedentary body of rush…heat pushes

out from the head…throat desires chianti and kalamata

open book, eyes look…words creating doorways

empty landscape. behind her mind prisoners break free, slam gates

mossy, tendril-vined romantic escapes. the time to absorb is over

the well is full…scribble, scrawl so fast...body relaxed

making music with the fast clack, clack of her old Olympia

chair thrown back, mad dash to each bookshelf and book stash

hunting for a line to feed her burning imagination…Nag Champa

flowery smoke signals inspire ancient thought…burns down slow

slower still...ashes rot…distant voices creep closer…the black ribbon is drying

words begin to resist the page…door opens...silence is crashed

beautiful stanzas fragment…slash...love enters and permeates every room~

soft scent of Nag Champa
mingles delicately with Patchouli
I close my eyes and breath deep
the fragrances of my dearest  
finding myself floating on waves of pheromone
my body contorts and folds
with each passing air current
smoke in a sunlight ray
unpredictable in its consistency
moving without effort
I land gently…
looking up from my resting place
two clear pools reflect
my own brown eyes piercing
my heart swells
my hands sweat
this is what love feels like –

A beauty of yellow Indian Tulip
With a graceful shape of Rose Chestnut
Filled with Cypress Vine of Jungle Flame lips
And the Golden Champa skin
Shining like a Scarlet Mallow
Curly black hair like Elephant Creepers
Was in a colourful dress of Peacock  Flowers
Alluring eyes of Blue Water Lily
With a face glowing like the Beauty Of The Night
A hair crown of Oleander
Necklace of Winter Jasmine
And Periwinkle earnings
Fragrance of Kunda was hypnotising
Making her man, the Gallant Soldier dissolve in her !

spoiled milk and wilted flowers dried up like tobacco
and all the air musty the litter and entropy of it pulls at your
attention. roaches and moths and junebugs tapping against
the glass or skittering
across your floor, climbing up the walls and into a corner
eyeing me probing the air with its antennae.
oil caked on the glass thoughts in my head
spurting red broken bones and shredded muscle
deliciously sinewy.

flush it down. inhale and head rush legs weak smile written across my face as my mind
recoils in terror and confusion
the world waves and warms. it shines.

nag champa blackwood currents and shisha
oily anticipation. just a few hours now and there will be reprieve
i can go back and heal from this confusing binge.

skies are blue. helicopters hover their way over the city and suburbs.
the tower spins its light. floating and warmed I wander back home.

the dreams might be hellish
sleep might not come at all
the time it takes to readjust is staggering.
yellows shades and water and lots of **.

now to disappear completely. leave the damage.
not a trace of yourself though.
run a massive burn
and then escape unnoticed.
sayonara.

Nag champa burning
Down dogs climbing high mountains
My inner spirit

Reliving last night because living today hurts too much
Tidying the remnants of what was
Utter ecstasy and pure bliss
Time spent with brilliant people
Vigorous dancing using every muscle to the max
The dream of a hedonistic socialite was lived
And every moment felt like it counted

Today it’s as if we were gifted
But now have all the wrapping to tidy up
No amount of Detol could put it right
Nag Champa only masks the pollution
And Happy Hippy can only wash away the accessories

The engravings of disgrace remain felt
We need a deep clean
But exhausted our energies on the mess
We’re stewing in our own filth wishing for some pro-activity

It’s like picking up grains of sand with a pair of tweezers
But the sand is glitter, feathers and ash
And the sea is beer, cocktail and jelly
Reliving the memories takes the edge off
Because the pain of today is justified
Words can’t speak the pleasure experienced
And the pleasure is relived as we reminisce
This day of suffering will end
But will retain the happiest of joyful memories
Unforgettable and never to be cleaned away

early morning sunrise
sitting on my favorite pillow
lush royal purple with golden braid
nag champa incense burning
a slight breeze, smoke swirling
tibetan singing bowls
and my prayer beads

The lazy fan drifts
over me like her gentle fingertips,
nag champa wafts the chamber
& I am mesmerized
by her sensual image
floating above me
in her full spirit.

A queen of the Kama sutra,
I drive her skyward,
pinpoint her cosmic place
deeply
& tremble in waves,
a slave to her,
completely
in nirvana.

Sweet melodies
swirl around me
like nag champa
in my stronghold,
this sacred place,
keeping me serene,
under the glow-stars
which never twinkle.

On a walk in the middle of spring.
All the bees on cali orange blossoms. The birds sing  
The difgerent smell of food as i go downtown
Live music somwhere in the distance echoing all around. Through the old neighborhoods i always  roam.
I feel at home.
Passing houses. Cars pass.  Incenese nag champa. ciggs. **** and fresh cut grass.
Seeing familiar people out and about.
Fresh air. Free. No lock down. No care. Even the dogs runnin up on me barkin is all good. Warm night Cool breeze through my neighborhood

Locked in tight,
a single bulb hung
from the cracked tile ceiling,
the window fan spread
the nag champa
as I sat with
crossed knees.

Out in the street
I heard chants,
smelled the odor
of refuse &
it confused,
titillated my senses.

I had left
the 21st century
to find myself
& found another
sacred planet
right here
on Mother Earth.

I am sitting in the middle of sky ,
and adoring this beautiful morning
Mountains are standing like a wall in front of me
The whole place surrounded by the black clouds
and showering love by tiny raindrops

Birds are chirping behind the trees
seems they are also enjoying
this beautiful morning same as i
These pink and white flowers
spreading their smells in the air ,
and palm trees are swaying by the wind.

The whole place is feeling so quite
seems every piece of nature  complaining to the GOD
that nobodys here to adore us
hoomans killed animals ,cut trees,blasts mountains
For whom???
what they are taking from nature and what they are giving???

There are nobody on the stairs of mountain, and
the the temple on the top of hilll is empty .
Hibiscus and champa had fallen their flowers ,
but now nobody is here to take them
near to the statue of lord shiva

The waves of river is flowing in the same way as before
but now nobody is here to bath and for suryanamaskar..
what we've lost?
                                                                               -samra

Brass portals,
Simmering with her
The wonder of conversations
That never occurred
Logbooks of crop seeds,
Party liquors and champa
Solvents; she seems
Like lilies
And memories of
Summer days spent
In vacated scenes

I wish for everything