I buy marigolds and paper pictures of the three devas, I light the diyas into prayer, that
every new home is a Diwali. To feel home, the art of where I’m not from, the batiks, the
women playing three instruments, I wish I had that many hands, one would be fully in my
pants the others would be at the chowki and belna, the others would be a mystery in that I
don’t know what books they would thumb through and realize, no this is no mirror.
I have never been vain enough to think everyone here is a guitar or the finger-picking of
“Born in the Land of the Mighty Rorima” was an actual creation story. A loud outer
metronome keeps the boys in line. Even now I keep my Aja’s scissors sharp enough to
keep the rum boys in line.
Every time I strike a match om my om breath om blows it out. Every time I intend on
fulfilling dharma I pick up a flute and play jai jagdish hare, victory to god of the universe
and my navel string aches from a garbage dump or an animal’s belly. I am as
inauspicious as a vulture; a father’s son who is not a son. Every time I strike a match it is
not a sun.