On your brow his stylus inscribes fate.
But a three-headed bearded God can

Rarely come back with after thoughts.
An educated wife keeps him occupied

Supposing she would prevail on him
To change the writing on your plate

Give him a blue pencil and editorial
Freedom,to change his own writing,

Can he make you unborn by a pencil
A blue pencil making you unhappen?


Festival season

There is the broken moon on the housetop there
Cold and soggy, snuggling to the breezy coconut.

The elephant god is not looking for it for laughter
After a heavy meal of sweets in his child-stomach.

Our dear elephant-god lies in now broken himself
At the bottom of the lake, snuggling to the algae.

Time for a many-armed mother, who shall bestow
Our victory for this season, wealth for our devout.

The mother maternal, eyes wet with love for sons
And terror in tongue, trounces demons under foot.

After the victory she too will go down to the lake
To a drum beating of music and camphor flames.

Our gods are like us, of soft clay and kitsch colors.
They disappear from life after the season is over.