The folds in the skirts of the universe may afford me a short hop skip and a jump to maybe another place, another time, where i will not doubt the which tumbles into entropy around me.
Maybe with some celestial clam diving by one overzealously self-contained burning gasball, into an abyss rifled with the catastrophe of imploding inertia, there will come a collapse that will appease my dainty indent of a footprint, to lapse over from the end of this spool to the woven interminglings of the next, maybe something with some more spin to it.
I will in high hopes then extend lively limb to reach across, not just this piss puddle here and the green straw-woven secrets secreted by the bovine benevolent there, but maybe even reach across time and space to rustle the tulle-inlaid skirts of pompous galaxies, tickle them so, please them to the persuasion of collapse, as an idea folds in on itself with the distraction of dexterous fingers in my pudding, if only to pull one away from intention and bend like backbones in kissless teenage girls to really truly I-just-wanna-make-you-happy-dear.
maybe then i will bend the magnitude between north and south to lay my head down tonight, save myself one more squat on the long-shed pot of my westward illusions of ideals, and one more jutting and jarring rickshaw ride (hands inside please) to finally settle into windy bay mornings, no more aware of the thousands of miles it would take, in this realm of mathematical dimension alone, of course.
I would miss the cooing of the crows feeding on fetid garbage but treating each other out of suspiciously sharp beaks, tentatively bowing for fear of not caring with sharing, but curious only, inquisitive, of the rumbling thunder that comes with dawn.
Time and space has tricked me into thinking that home is not a spatial place, but the people it takes to fill up from here to there disagree with me. for while the four walls constructed to comfort me may not be a physically available amenity, (much needed at times of urine and serendipity) I cannot seem to linger far enough to lose sight of mama’s garden, hedging there just beyond the curve of the road that carried me from goa to mumbai.
Home is not a spatial place, and if you deconstruct it carefully, space will fold to whim dutifully.
as i have convinced myself and my lucky stars not to collapse to save space like a bad storage idea or baby buggy, there remains thousands of miles before my feet are planted firmly on what i already knew. here today, i can only hope they will stay underneath me (with some stability) as i falteringly search out what i have yet to see.