Performance

with Skidmore Fountain @ the Living Room, NYC

Sharing Space

 

The moon sits at the bar like a vamp

and my eyes are dune buggies, shredding

up the barren landscape of her shoulders.

 

What is the age of beauty?

How do I dispel the cover of clouds?

 

I approach and linger on

the nape of her neck, then dip to whisper, “I couldn’t

help noticing you from across the void.”

 

She slugs her glass of twilight over the desert wind,

drags a cigarette, blows smoke then sighs, “my oasis tent is just

around that sandy bluff.”

 

Imagine veils.  Imagine velvet

grapes, towering fountains of wine that taste of mulled dream.

Imagine anything, then multiply it with the past seven days.

 

Tonight, the moon arrives as I float, waiting,

naked in a pool of stars.  She goes to slip

into something more comfortable and returns

in a spacesuit.

Blame

 

You are a magnet so huge,

you have a gravitational pull.

 

Do you see how light

bends for you?

 

I am developing black

holes in my mind, for

 

something so huge

I cannot find.

Sun in the Sky

If you can hear this,

                                   there is still hope.

 

That burning disc above

boring through the clouds,

                                               red as blood,

keeps us from everlasting night.

Wintery ash in the sky,

roadside fires, puddles of ink

and mud,

                 your head in your hands.

How it has come to this is no longer important.

                 Grab your dented radio, seek

the highest point you can find,

 

climb over bones and rubble

up whatever staircase, raise

the antennae, switch

the knobs, listen to static--

 

There will be a sign.

 © 2020 Shomit Barua

Shomit
Barua