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For Chandra

 
 
i call the following poem "touch."
--a poem about things in hand, things in union, and things that paradoxically permeate.
...and of course, it's for my love.
 
 
hot rice foreheads
merciful doorknob bar of soap lips, merchandise
guitarwinterairtaxiseatankles
stubble rose (dead and alive) epic
fishfoodflakes rain plastic fantastic (into slot, door opens)
imperfect skin walls and stairs
chapstick palms toilet seat (backwards and forwards)
pockets (of denim, wheat) buddha trembling
and clumsy thumbs
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Home.

You and me are one beautiful person
We don’t need mirrors
or paved roads
We don’t need forks, just 
                        glass and moms that will
endure our oily curiosity
And it don’t matter how many cigarettes you smoke tonight
Nothing can stain our brilliant kiss
and I’ll still melt when I hear your
littleboylaughter
and still cry when I realize
it’s me laughing, too
 
toujours...
                                                              sometimes i can’t even believe it
 
 

Show me colors.

we sat against the stack of pillows
holding a new child, born years ago of an iconoclast
 
at first you thought it might be dead
and i feared the moon was beating down too hard on its face
 
until at once we saw
a girl
imprisoned in stone
a girl
following with her eyes
the moonlight as it touched down
to where her feet could feel the night's
green wetness
 
for the longest time we couldn't figure out
why the color had left her cheeks
when she, too, had touched down
 
do you understand now, too?
 
she gave it to us.
 
 
 
 
 

Middle Hopping.

Pressed against the pillows then
                     -again and again-
Passion soaked up by the perfect Simplicity
of synchronized breathing
thinly coating our underground Physics
 
           Nine days
to separate feathers from syrup
           a Lifetime
           to combine them
                     -again and again-
 
                                   no need to disjoin
                                   The shell from The yolk
 
 

Breakthrough.

Your palms
are puzzle pieces
How do you never tire of reaching them
right into my empty spots?
I hope you won't mind it
When I need your palms once more
To feel for
that mystery beyond the wrist
 
Tell me quickly
If mine are open or closed
For Love is an unclenching of the fists.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Untitled.

I wouldn't call it fog,
more like sweet conjoined bowls
with that ticklish sort of pregnance
And Yes,
eyelids.
Guess I'll just button up this
consternation
for now. My spine is too folded to...
oh brown crayon. There's nothing better than
dizzy ankles danglinginthereeds.
 
 

long-distance.

You haven't been gone long.
In fact, the bed's still warm.
or, I forgot to turn off
the electric blanket.
But thanks,
for leaving your comb.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
At last, here is a poem Chandra wrote for Us:

Worcester to South Station.

"A million songs run through my head when I think of you. It seems like they all said it better."~Chandra
 
Downtown is full of people
Yet so empty
And I remember how lost I am
But I'm not alone, love
I see love in the trees
It's green, brown, yellow, orange
Blue even!
It's a lot like your eyes...very pretty
Beauty is love?
No, love is beauty.
A sense of destiny overcomes me
And I'm not frightened...not at all
Let time's currents bear me away to death
But let you be there with me.
When a lost key finds its lock,
It's not some earth-shattering revelation
Just an inaudible sigh of relief
That somewhere some door has opened
Why wouldn't it?
 
I won't let the magic of your discovery pass me by
It's so natural, our love
Squeeze my hand and tell me I'm not dreaming
Love, life, nature
My, our holy trinity
They drew us together somehow
Call my a hypocrite for condemning the anthropic principle,
But our love is too beautiful for that
It's a plastic bag dancing in the wind
Full of life, energy and mystery
Beautifully simple
Simply beautiful
 
I'm downtown again
Not much closer to found
But hey,
At least I'm head over heels in love.
 
 
 
and another...
 
 
 
 
 
 
The stars can just drizzle
     placidity onto our forheads, as we
comb                our fingertips
through piles of chocolate sand.
Trembling in electrified symbiosis
                                        we exude
 
sweeT, grayness.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Marilyn "Molly" Catharine Oakley and Mukkamala Venkat Sathya Chandrashekhar
...Partners in Garlic Always...
 
 
 
more pictures of chandra
 
 
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