In the name of democracy
An entire state is terrorized
Decade after decade
Freedoms are curbed
Protests are brutally suppressed
People are brutally oppressed
Education is diluted

In the name of democracy
The Army turns from protector to oppressor
Every soldier marching past
With his head held high
Sounds the death knell
For every man, woman and child
In the name of democracy
Soldiers break into houses
Wielding their massive rifles
As if it is their birthright
As the peace and harmony within
Is replaced by abject terror
In the name of democracy
All morals are flung out of the window
As the women are *****
The men who challenge this unspeakable atrocity
Are swiftly silenced with bullets
As the children begin screaming in terror
They are molested, one by one
Until the trauma overcomes them
Such that, they lose their voices
They lose their minds
They lose their hearts
Meanwhile, the soldiers slip away quietly
Having completed a good day of work
In the name of democracy

In the name of democracy
India and Pakistan, warring for decades
Use Kashmir as a bait
As a means to satisfy
Their unquenchable thirst for power
As the potion simmers on
Fuelled by hate on both sides
Curfews and lockdowns follow with alarming regularity
Schools and colleges are shut down
Political organizations are banned
The Internet is crippled
Mobiles and landlines are killed
Even the most feeble of all protests
Is brutally quelled with bullets and grenades

In the name of democracy
Consent is dead and buried
As nationalism takes centre stage
The world watches on silently
Allowing India, the oppressors-in-chief
To reclaim the moral high ground
And suddenly proclaim themselves as saviours
Leaving the beleaguered Kashmiris no choice
But to bow to their captors
Their dreams of self-determination
Shattered ruthlessly in the course of a mad, mad day
In the name of democracy

a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs*

my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.

burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^

she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.

she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.

a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a  e  i  o  u.

you can hear what I heard too.

after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.

I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.

but not so well.

I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.

here is how it comes all together.
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.

oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.

these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:

this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.

I could live without
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.

but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.

So you see this poem is about
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.

In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.*

you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.

Spitting out poetry
knitting out seams
seems to never make much sense
or much money.
It tastes like honey
It exists where
landlines turn into moles
landmines turn into souls.
Bowls of coal for breakfast,
flag half mast
cast in bronze on front lawns.
Yawns echo through classrooms.
What was I saying before?
I can't remember anymore.

My little black book is dusty,
The names are smeared and
Most of them were landline numbers.
For you youngsters,
Get on your parents lap and ask em
To tell ya what landlines were:
    And I hate your love poem
    Because I know they are real,
    I need a girlfriend,
    Maybe I forgot how that feels.
    
    I hate your love poem,
    Its really quite good,
    But the t reminds me I'm all
    Alone, alone in da hood.

    I hate your love poem
    Because I don't know any girls,
    And yeah some are corny,
    Some make me wanna hurl!

    So don't get it wrong,
    Please try to understand,
    I'm just a little jealous,
    Alone and doing what I can.

I'm old enough to remember
**** Tracy's watch,
Kirk's communicator,
Needless injections,
Landlines, TV,
Head transplants,
And meeting for coffee.
You're young enough
To remember simpler times
Of virtual friends
Twelve thousand miles away,
3D transportation,
And clouds that don't rain.
The good ole days.

You've finally got the life you always wanted, but never had.
And now you're apparently happy and I believe you.
Happy, but without us.

We don't mention the times when you were with us any more,
the times when you held our hands, whispered goodnight to us, tucked us in.
The easy times when you laughed at something funny, sitting there in the living room or standing in the kitchen.

We thought you were happy,
but behind the gentle warm smile and pool of blue eyes that reflected our own back at yours,
you were harbouring a secret.
A secret you'd likely held onto for a good, long and 'apparent' 17 years, possibly more.

Who knows.

It's hard to mention you at home now,
because it's always met with a stone cold silence or, even worse,
a harsh, bitter remark, that can render itself so easily from the one man you thought you loved's lips.

But how easy it is to remember.
To remember you before the outbreak of change, of a new life.
Easy to remember you lounging on the armchairs watching television in the evenings,
to hear you talking and laughing on the telephone out in the hallway,
back in those days when landlines were the norm,
as if nothing was wrong,
as if you were happy.

Now, I see you in the brief few minutes of the mornings,
when you drop me off to college.
A snatching of an encounter, and even then it's in secrecy.
But it's nice to have that private time with you;
it's even more special.

Our time.

But I'm really glad you're happy,
and that you're able to live life free.
I'm glad you've got the life you wanted.

Maybe, one day, he will too.

I have this stack of
letters that I saved just for
you but there are no stamps
nor envelopes nor
mailmen that can assist me
in my fifth or sixth
attempt to reach
you. There are no
landlines nor roads nor
rivers that span as far
as the distance between
us that ties us
together. My legs
itch my back stings my
eyelids stick but
my heart stands
still taped to the
reverse of my
letters for you.

your st-st-st-stubble looks like glitter up close
you're like a star like a movie star or something

you look-k-k like a king and
and and andand
when you flex your arms I feel
a little punch! in my heart
how cliché howhowhow cliché

I REALLY LIKE TALKING TO YOU
if we had landlines I'd probably call you
and I'd hang off my bed upside down
and twirl the wire around my fingers
like in the movies! you're a m-movie star


punch!
punch! punch!

my heart's all beaten up and you're repairing hers
her heart's fine
i think i t-t-think
your glitter is getting in my nose and my teeth
your sparkle is blinding my eyes
g'night

It’s two in the morning
and I am wishing landlines were more literal.
I could pull you across the distance that spans between us
and the shocked silence wouldn’t need to stretch so far.

You could have died.
He could have died.
But you’re still here and Damocles’s sword
swings like a pendulum

and that’s all that’s left to show for the fight.
That, and the shattered glass across asphalt
and the split second you couldn’t tell which grey
was sky.

Your knees are bruised, but they’ve been so before.
Old wounds make way for new ones.
Damocles is a myth.
You are a legend.

a soda bomb
on my laptop
an electric surge
a interior fire
all my words
all my contacts
On internet sites
Without landlines
Without roots
Tethered to a cloud
Between the atoms
Which form such things
As paper and pen
Will my children find my footprints
In cyberspace.