(E)LAPSE

Everything’s so f***gotten.
I know you hate that

Even those plants
turn the other way
begin pretending
they did not see

Even the words
climbing to your mouth
simply hang there,
Fall to gravity

Everything’s f***gotten
And everything’s quiet always.

POEM IN WHICH I ASSIST WITH DINNER PLANS

(It's not very pleasant there

--cars are exhaling exhaust)

But yes, it's wonderful to see you

And yes, it's been a really long time

(Traffic honks derisively

as the conversation stilts and teeters)

Gosh--and well, this evening--isn't it just beautiful?

And hell--you just don't know where to go for dinner--

(All the desperate, round headlights

shrink into dismayed, modest points)

Anyway! How is this one and that and the other

one, and have you heard, and didn't we have so much fun

(Then I have one brief spotlit moment

As another car slides into the dark)

And you look at me and you look at me,

suddenly spy my hand-me-down brown skin...

And you've come to a decision

--Hon, you say

to your companion--

How about the Indian restaurant tonight?

"CAMERA,"

He says, has two syllables
cam . ra.
Sure, she says,
like "terrorist,"
tair . rist.
She probably deserves
that poke in the ribs.

Stuck
at the same light
in Chinatown
for the last half hour
they’ve already revised
their desire to live in the city

And on NPR
an old couple
is described as having been married so long
that they complete each other’s sentences.

In the car,
they test themselves:
He suspends:
When I wake up in the morning
the first thing I want to do is…
And she ends:
Call someone dickweed.

Their mirth freed;
the whoops and hand jives
they counterfeit
are almost as much fun
as the real hug and kiss
that linger like ink stains
and memory.

Turns out, the old lady on the radio
is in Lebanon
and talking about how
Israeli soldiers lent her
their cell phone to call
her grown-up son in Melbourne
because she was worried about him.

Too many things about the radio story
make her want to cry.
Coming as it does
on top of a morning spent
dragging her feet
at the Intrepid Museum

it leaves her feeling
like she doesn't belong
in the world,
and he will stumble upon her
asleep in sudden, odd places
for the rest of the day.

The Big Ohio Con(fluence)

I’d never been to Ohio. But this year, first there was the wedding in Yellow Springs (Big A is all Ohio-born and mostly-Ohio bred); my favorite cousin Bhooshy won a Fulbright to Case Western University; Ninni, easily my nicest cousin, has a teaching gig at Dayton; and to trump it all, the best sister ever (mine) may be posted to Ohio on her next assignment--it certainly looks like ol’ Ohio is being colonized by the Gadadoss cousins.

So Ohio is going up in my--highly irrational--rankings.

I don’t think the Gadadosses are related to Ohioan Subodh Chandra who’s ran for Attorney General of Ohio. But I like him a lot… Check out his on-spot, personal response to George Allen’s Macacagate here.

Not to be missed--the adorable pix of his two-year-old triplets flaunting Macacagate tees.

Chandra had this to say on SM after Allen "apologized" more than a week after the incident:

The op-ed was written before news broke of Allen's supposed "apology" to Sidarth, which sounds like it's a another "I'm sorry if I offended you" rather than the apology it should have been. And it sure sounds like it's part of a "having-it-both-ways" strategy.

Here's my George-Allen-fantasy apology: "I'm sorry that my mother, a French-Tunisian immigrant, taught me slurs about dark-skinned people. I'm sorry that I used one and 'welcomed you to America' and 'the real world of Virginia' when you are as American and more Virginian than I am. I'm sorry I sought in that moment also to humiliate you in front of an all-white audience and rally them to view you as unAmerican. Oh, and I am firing my campaign manager for saying this was no big deal because it is, and for continuing to try to undermine my apology."

Now that would be impressive.

On the basis of these six (if you count the adorable triplets) robust reasons alone, I’ve already pimped Chandra to Big A who thinks he’s still registered to vote in Ohio.

We're all living under a Fatwa...

If you're craving a shameless Salman Rushdie fix (like i always seem to be), here's an article in the U.K. Telegraph in which he sounds almost as vacuous as a media celebrity--but then, he is one, i suppose...

Soundbyte:

It has not escaped his attention that living under a fundamentalist threat was once a solo occupation for him. Now we all are.

"That's true," he says cheerfully. "And I think we all are in the end making the same choice that I made all those years ago which was, you just have to get on with your life. You know, in the end, that is all you can do."

Showcase: Li'l A

Given the crypto minimalistic, going-nowhere nature of my last couple of poetry posts, I’ve decided to showcase instead the work of a true, and incidentally very young, master of the minimalist form.

The following two poems were composed by Li’l A a couple of summers ago when he was five.

Poem 1: For me

I love you little,
I love you middle,
I love you lots.
I love you.

Li'l A's grandmother’s distress at not having a poem dedicated to her prompted her to commission one, and the result was the following, more sophisticated, production.

This second poem has an obviously mischievous punch and is expertly poised between affectionate teasing and outright provocation--as such, it’s an excellent illustration of the poet‘s relationship with the subject : ).

Poem 2: For Ammama

You smell like cheese.
You’re soft like cheese.
Do you taste like cheese?
I LOVE cheese!

WHO

Her?
These days

In a worn wife-beater
and freshly-applied tan
She considers

Gender
and also race