The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

It is a smile on the turpitude of scorching sun that inflicts on us
A harbinger from the kingdom of heaven.

Descending from above -soothing ,dancing ,sizzling mizzling and  torrential at times,
Sluicing down the earth bed ,end to end, wherever it touches.

It has power to sustain this world
It has the power to raze this world
It has the power to ornament this world
It made this abode a rarest one in the matrix of the whole universe
From past to present, ever and forever.

It is  a presence felt as long as the earth is green,the sun shines,
The ocean whirls and the moon chuckles,
Be it called -the clouds,rain ,life or water
All in one the manifestation of the other.
A benediction from the Soul Supreme
To which we all owe our existence.

By D.R.Mohanty

It drizzled
It's mizzling
It'll rain

The sky is sunless
Natheless
It's not alone
The sky has tender clouds
Unlike me
The sky
is never lonely

July has the musical concert
of rain

But the power outages in Heaven,
or the concentrated sulphuric rage of a dog
that's denied it's pom-pom meal,
or the grit showed by a crown that faced a big blue bug,
or the achievements of the fallen cookie;
there must be room for the rusted prostitution
of God's vestigial hobbies,
for the matte personality trying to find a way
to not be a pococurante,
for the truth value of a fiscal year to be decided
over a game of arm-hair ripping,
for the civil gauze to allow its memory clot
to mature into a functioning worker;
not done with the perjuring aphid,
the bundled and slouching rose,
the anaphoric destitution of history,
the tiger's salivating mouth;
don't even bring up Count Chocula,
the tide of blinding, burning magnesium
that suits the ******,
the twine chairs and the feet rested on their heads
as they wait;
what's mizzling here, I haven't got protection!
Bad, bad son, running to the dust,
to the accounting that's hurt,
mesmerized by the cult of burnt meat,
holding up.