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Waking up in the middle of the night
Into nothingness, empty of sight and sound

Primordial state of being

A vacant feeling like the beginning of feeling
Or that awful confusion of a dull, empty mind
Its entire memory erazed somehow, leaving no trace.
Nothing.
A live mind with nothing to be mindful of.

There is something in the darkness. Me.
My hand moves as if stung by the serpent mind–
Involuntary–CLICKKKKKK in the blank
and comes into a glow the shadded bedside lamp–
The first thing to come into being visibly–
A halo of being in nothingness, fading out into nothingness.
Or is the halo swallowing up the endless darkness?
(Ultimately no matter what’s first? (So important now.)
You come, make someplace your home and then leave
Another you comes, lives in your home, sleeps in your bed, and leaves
Still another you comes… The ritual repeats.)

My hand in the golden glow–the first time to see myself
In the middle of the night, the nothingness.
Then the details begin to show slowly
Like a live time-lapse evolutionary process–
The details of all values from the blackest to the brightest:
My phone, laptop, books, a pen and notebook…
Ranged in the valued halo.
Life begins!

Death is quite different when you’ve survived
Several suicides and several other deaths—
Death is so worthless, and life—you’ve nowhere to go!

I died there in that city, in that sad, small, dark, boring room
In those monotonous restaurants
(Which we frequented for fear of loneliness)
Those parks, those benches, those thorns
Those hospital beds, corridors and clinic rooms
Those same boring streets, same boring traffic
(Whose sound we listened to for fear of silence)
Day in, day out. Year in, year out!
I lived there, in the city, digging a grave across it
I died there, across that city, in that grave
Buried my dead body there, in that grave, across that city
With the body of my dead love—
Love, nowhere to live, nowhere to die.

A piece of me still moving—a sure sign of life,
Like a dead actor in an olden movie.
Something doesn’t quite let it alone—life, death,
And I love it and I hate it, equally—it just confuses me.
No name! My heart just pumps it, and I feel its aching flow
Through my veins and capillaries all over my body!

Quiet and heavy like a dark mountain at night.

Every day when men, birds, and animals
Plod back home eagerly at sunset
I drive from home far to that city,
A city of horns, sirens, and screams
To listen to a lost voice, in the silence—
A city without a sound without the sound
Of that sweet living voice. A city I hated once.

Absence viscerates the heart
And stuffs it with emptiness. Full and heavy,
So conspicuous, so torturous—working out
A slow, stretched-out death, my bones aching with love
The best death for love ever.

Ah!

Where does all that go? Time, all of it?
Why did it leave me, at the same coordinates
But with a run of new faces, new buildings, new names—
All turning strange before my own eyes?
Just old memories fresh like it’s always spring!
The best death for love ever. Worthless now!

Colors, familiar and nameless, and their shades
Leave no empty yawn, a strange hole of nothingness
In the factory, its old sooty walls, the grimy machines,
The receptacles, the wastes and even the cracks in its walls
And the tin roof sun beams steaming down through
Like smoky fingers, airy and ghostly

Warm liquid red, live with nimble steel instruments
Busy with the flesh under brooding halogen light
Amid the first bloody breaths and the first welcome cry…
And the last liquid red that follows a stained steel bullet
Which shell-loosened yellow sands suck dry black

Colors have spilled out of the old factory
Gushing out of its wall cracks and roof holes
Broken door panels and glass window panes,
Pushing the colored fingers back out
Like colorful porcupine needles softening into
Roads, houses, trees, travelers spilling out of
And into houses and buildings, buses, cars and trains
And flowing in sunny streets and creeping in black tunnels
Like liquid ants, engaged in rhythms of love
Or swift movements of hatred, and nameless stirs
With no apparent meanings but just life.

Lightning splashes its electric blue—
steaming hot painting

A burnt heart—red and black,
and steaming—
lands into the grave of a crack

Crown and gold coins rain into it
Warm coins shaped like love
Coins red and wet like lips—
Useless riches about the cold queen
Riches after life

empty, unavailable arms
and it remains raining