indiarevisited
Varanasi Inspired by Ginsberg
Buzzing fan stops its whirling power cut again, no warning a cappella
dogs baptize the night with their croons hip digs into stiff straight
mattress; turn over and let my bum take the spite of the
board sleepless night, up at 6:10 and ready for the 6:20 boat boatman
seems to have read my mindawaiting a sleep-deprived tourist in the
courtyard try the ghat gate but it's locked and no one's around to
open it don't they know the sun is about to rise? urgent we go out the
other way and down to his moist wooden boat fog dips down to the water
and waits for the obnoxious sun to push his way into the day with
thick breath, it slides onto my skin like a wet cotton ball scornful
of my invading breath woolen cap protects the oar man, I burrow into
my scarf water like the smooth wet surface of my eye early bright puja
flowers bobbing in their leaf bowls fighting the breeze to keep the
prayer aflame moody buildings rise suddenly from the ghat, reluctant
to open their orifices, knowing that light brings heat want to remain
ominous and imposing shirtless brown men already in the water
splashing and swishing right hand to mouth for a slurp of holy, green
Ganga what about the lump of sepia sludge floating by and the hoary,
hairy skull of a holy bovine off for a swim, halfway, can he make it
all the way? hands together, eyes closed, down up down up daily
self-baptism yellow, squinty eyed poser pilgrim conspicuously praysit
will never be your religion bitch dogs run about looking for
breakfast, playing with their neighbor pack for a bit of
exercise light rays have burst on the flat desolate other sidegot the
raw end of the deal, that sideand struggle to warm the cool air above
the water the small burning ghat doesn't need it, it's been burning
since cold dark chanting this early morning push past with heavy oars,
try not to see the emaciated body, lip-licking flames devouring old
flesh bulbous head and bird feet erect, baldly show themselves under a
pile of life size Lincoln logs is this a better way to go?...strange
to entrust the lowest class to carrying your father down to the
river wouldn't it be more honorable to do it yourself he sweeps your
streets, takes your trash and now this?...the stretcher into the still
water to be embraced, silky droplets coating the golden cloth-covered
body then lit and to ash and mixed with all the other black bits by
the shore is this really better go away you curious george white man
and find your plot of dirt dig your hole and leave me to my bath have
it your way up the ghat to chai tent filled with chai woman in an
ill-fitting sari one rot-your-teeth chai please in a glass slurped by
how many others this barely lit morning?...and some parle-g's for
dipping 50 rupees for your rowing, my friend, I think I'll walk now to
the main ghat to sit and watch skinny tangerine sadhus with unkempt
stringy beards (I can braid that for you) haunting eyes, chiseled
cheek-bones, bow legs bless me for baksheesh with wet orange powder on
my wide white forehead baby brown cow sniffs my head hoping for a leaf
or a bit of dal, her pointy gum tongue leaves it's cavity to explore
my hand she's been freshly bathed by her mother it's not Ganges water,
but it's something she wanders to the open-air barber man in the chair
puts his adam's apple in the barber's hand, head back like the burning
man, straight edge against wet stubbly skin
Varanasi Inspired by Ginsberg
Buzzing fan stops its whirling power cut again, no warning a cappella
dogs baptize the night with their croons hip digs into stiff straight
mattress; turn over and let my bum take the spite of the
board sleepless night, up at 6:10 and ready for the 6:20 boat boatman
seems to have read my mindawaiting a sleep-deprived tourist in the
courtyard try the ghat gate but it's locked and no one's around to
open it don't they know the sun is about to rise? urgent we go out the
other way and down to his moist wooden boat fog dips down to the water
and waits for the obnoxious sun to push his way into the day with
thick breath, it slides onto my skin like a wet cotton ball scornful
of my invading breath woolen cap protects the oar man, I burrow into
my scarf water like the smooth wet surface of my eye early bright puja
flowers bobbing in their leaf bowls fighting the breeze to keep the
prayer aflame moody buildings rise suddenly from the ghat, reluctant
to open their orifices, knowing that light brings heat want to remain
ominous and imposing shirtless brown men already in the water
splashing and swishing right hand to mouth for a slurp of holy, green
Ganga what about the lump of sepia sludge floating by and the hoary,
hairy skull of a holy bovine off for a swim, halfway, can he make it
all the way? hands together, eyes closed, down up down up daily
self-baptism yellow, squinty eyed poser pilgrim conspicuously praysit
will never be your religion bitch dogs run about looking for
breakfast, playing with their neighbor pack for a bit of
exercise light rays have burst on the flat desolate other sidegot the
raw end of the deal, that sideand struggle to warm the cool air above
the water the small burning ghat doesn't need it, it's been burning
since cold dark chanting this early morning push past with heavy oars,
try not to see the emaciated body, lip-licking flames devouring old
flesh bulbous head and bird feet erect, baldly show themselves under a
pile of life size Lincoln logs is this a better way to go?...strange
to entrust the lowest class to carrying your father down to the
river wouldn't it be more honorable to do it yourself he sweeps your
streets, takes your trash and now this?...the stretcher into the still
water to be embraced, silky droplets coating the golden cloth-covered
body then lit and to ash and mixed with all the other black bits by
the shore is this really better go away you curious george white man
and find your plot of dirt dig your hole and leave me to my bath have
it your way up the ghat to chai tent filled with chai woman in an
ill-fitting sari one rot-your-teeth chai please in a glass slurped by
how many others this barely lit morning?...and some parle-g's for
dipping 50 rupees for your rowing, my friend, I think I'll walk now to
the main ghat to sit and watch skinny tangerine sadhus with unkempt
stringy beards (I can braid that for you) haunting eyes, chiseled
cheek-bones, bow legs bless me for baksheesh with wet orange powder on
my wide white forehead baby brown cow sniffs my head hoping for a leaf
or a bit of dal, her pointy gum tongue leaves it's cavity to explore
my hand she's been freshly bathed by her mother it's not Ganges water,
but it's something she wanders to the open-air barber man in the chair
puts his adam's apple in the barber's hand, head back like the burning
man, straight edge against wet stubbly skin