Conchology

jesus on the cross

On a skull hill
Overlooking a sleepy town
There was a man who was evicted. 
He was whipped, clothes ripped apart
Humiliated in front of throngs,
Paraded with two cut throat thieves,
And hung on a cross of timber.
And today, he is still found on a million crosses,
On bed stands, between clavicles,
On the tip of rosaries.

And this man, a fisherman,
Who everyday sat on a beach,
And looked at leftover seashells
The exoskeletons of a once was mollusk,
Now littering and yet carving
A place among the silica crystals.
And that was his legacy, a shell, an exoskeleton,
So different from the rest, so beautiful in design,
In conchology; the lines, the colors
The feel, all telling the onlooker,
That the most precious part of life,
Is found in what doesn’t turn to ash.

And the Jesus mollusk
In one Judas’s kiss, transformed
To be the hunted, clawed with nails,
Wiped out from history. And this near-naked
Man’s echo, even today, proliferates through,
The enclosure of a shell, the dome he built
To house his legacy, where millions
Gather to celebrate the son of man,
Who was long before death,
A son of the ocean.

And that abalone shell lives
As Jesus’s chopped ear,
As the perfect example of how,
To forgive and forget. And that auriform whorl
Now looks down on us, as one of many
Church domes, housing his solitary echo,
Of being the anomaly in the sands,
The glitter bearer, who went down in pages of history,
To become an amulet on a cross,
Remembered through time,
As abalone flesh on tongues.

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Trump

ducks

The anti-christ of politicial correctness,
The great white hope on a crusade,
The afterthought of carelessness,
The bigwig with a big wig, the arrogance in a suit,
The old man of the white house,
The twitter bird and the fat mallard,
The El nino and La nina,
The contradiction and the counter-attack,
The fall guy and the hairspray,
And yet, the strangest coincidence
Of how easy it is to trump over democracy.
The ballot is a sign of the dissonance,
When the notoriety of a candidate
Is both an attraction and distraction.
And a loud man, louder than a freight train, more
Voluble than a cicada, makes
Our hearts feel something or the other,
And what else is there but freedom to pamper us,
To decorate us with ambivalence. The frigid
American heart now looks at a mallard,
A wild duck who came from the wilderness,
Wondering did we do wrong here?
And yet how sweet is a stinking durian,
Who beautiful is the stenching rafflesia,
As the pachyderm called democracy
Takes miniature steps forward and feeds its self with
Little sovereign leaves, photosynthesizing
On their own brilliant brainwaves.
And what else can America do now,
But watch The Donald Show
Unfold in Disneyland.

Trump and Me

donald trump

There are yardsticks everywhere you look.
The hemline is a measure,
Of the degree of a woman putting herself out. 
Alcohol tells man how much
He can glug, without feeling like shit
All over, when the hangover the next morning
Seems like a little nauseating pastime.
You ask yourself what and who
Should measure me. Should a flabby tummy be a measure
Of how unfit I am, or my friendliness,
Should it be an indicator of flirtatious behavior,
Or will I be judged on my carelessness
Of being forthcoming with comments
Which makes me the anti-christ
Of political correctness.
Still I look at the person who is most
Visible and most judged in the world.
A man who combs his larger than life,
Blonde hair, into a comb over,
And presides over an oval office.
He is judged on every careless act,
On every decision, on every utterance
Every imperfection. You wonder
At how much stone you need to be that fellow
Who can only be in compromise,
The weakling in a power suit,
Who twitters out shock tactics and awe
And yet is just a man who is too visible
To hide anywhere, making the world safe, to make people
Bloom to see their potential.
How glad I’m that I’m not the guardian of this planet,
Just a regular Joe, who will
Die a noone, and yet one feeling
That capsizes you, will ensure
You’re an alibi even after you’re dust. The only
Yardstick I aim for is love,
How big, how solitary and how true,
How much did I have of it to shine on one creature.
I will never be the mobile phone I carry
Or the designation at work.
And while the bigwig in the white house
Works on nuclear disarmament
I’m working on nuclear chemistries
And nuclear physics, to make
Fate reel in a moment of nuclear biologies fusing,
To issue a ticket, for the right
To carry a water balloon, nucleated by an intangibility
A medium, aether, a chemistry,
Of a spillover that moistens an inner spongy chamber
With perfect innumerability.