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from Pearls of an Unstrung Necklace

by Prakash Kona

Salt, Sunlight, Pendulum

I cannot be your mirror image because it is illusion. In the prison of time thoughts of salt bring tears to eyes. Salt is principle of realism. Though I have a musical sense of moodiness death offers certainty for life to go on. In glimpses of reality I found happiness of dreams. I taste salt of eyes when sunlight invades the privacy of home disrespecting the norm that guest must not enslave host. You are sunlight that occupies space without being occupied. In my home I am your hostage. How could I be without knowing that you cherish anger as ghost would cherish the body it left behind? How could you be without possessing me? We are caught in nature of things. The pendulum is without nature. It swings with unimprovised movements of a sleepwalking dancer. In case of pendulum the idea is also object. The pendulum transcends distinction between ideal and real. It stands out as exception among objects. Unsteady at heart I envy the pendulum. Wars and famines will not disturb its timeless constancy. I am hurt that I don't see you enough. I want to be suspended in a way as to regulate the beating of time's heart. Time is heartless. My sweet moments with you pass away as if they never existed. My nature drops dead into the state of a pendulum which seriously means I must be aging. I am saved by saltiness of salt made in hot rays of sunlight. It means that I love you despite the fact that I am invaded and occupied. We have seen too much of each other. At the end of lovemaking sessions my hands need to sleep and you wish to talk and be entertained. There is a crack in our expectations. The same body I see everyday and convince myself that it must be a different one. The approach to loving a person is stressful enough. I need to rest and I don't want you to mistake it for indifference. I can live with a friend and not a lover. Befriend me as salt befriends sunlight. You don't have to invade or occupy for me to love you. You had it before I set my eyes on you. Space is not an issue for me. My sense of privacy is internal to my nature. Deprived of nature I turn into a pendulum. Forgive my unfairness if I speak for you. I manipulate when you don't look. I entice you toward me. I decide that I need you and convey the same to you. You are moved. Have I invaded and occupied you? In that hoarse voice of lovemakers you say yes. Love that is not love is a pendulum. The words we use are in a crisis. We talk of change without thinking of sea. I am waters of the sea. For you I become salt. The sad motion of pendulum tells me that something has been changing all along. I was mistaken. My theories of nature are wrong. I confess that I am deceived by eyes of imagination. To know you as verity I must renounce deception. Water is nature of salt. Salt is nature of sunlight. The pendulum connects all. In love I am not a prisoner of time. This has nothing to do with words. I am water at deepest level of who I am. From the underground water moves into public taps for life to continue. That is my humanity. Loving you is not about being human. It is about loving you. It is knowledge that you precede me. The water does not precede salt and sunlight. The soundless motion of pendulum precedes the coming of day or salt that I eat with bread, hot chilies and water. You are time and I am your prisoner.

The Analysis of Sleep

I am divided as scales of a fish. Walls collide in moonless madness. I am divided as moons of planets that fish their way in cosmic waters. Using the scales of a fish I proved for a fact that mathematically speaking bodies cannot be multiplied with souls. The soul is knowledge of body. The body experiences the perceiving eye in moments. There is no water in paradise. The dancers are reluctant to please the gods. Flushed cheeks on indifferent nights. Insomnia bothers me. I find you distraught and far away. You are earth and I am moon. The onslaught of sensuality on my weeping nerves. The soul is a pathetic onlooker. Suffering bodies sing strange songs. I am divided within my own self. Where do you come from that you produce such disturbance within me? You sent ripples through sleeping waters of cosmos. Where do you hide your face when I need to see you most? What happens to my whirling feet when I seek to find you everywhere? I never stop. Neither do the feet. We share the fate of travelers. I can find you in different faces at different points in life. My search begins each time we meet. When you are away I am thinking that only death can stop my feet. I apologize to you if I die before knowing you. The impassioned face of age speaks to me in a disconnected tone. Am I really in the present where I am supposed to be? The heart creates its own ways in and out of reality. Speak to me and let me be real for moments that I am with you. The body is in terror when it realizes that soul has been watching it all along. I look for reasons to complain to you especially after long absences. I forget my complaints the instant I see you. You point out the fact that the lover in me changes with time. You mean to say that the intensity of the lover's body diminishes before noonday sun. I am no match for the sun. I suggest that it is high time you choose the sun for lover than me. The unflagging energy of sun will pronounce words of unending love that might remotely satisfy your soul. In cosmic time the sun is limited. In the universe how do you define a limitation if one form is always changing to another. I cannot stop myself from touching water. The water has life of its own. It speaks to me as if words mattered. It demands love of me. I ought to express myself as clearly as possible. The demands of water are infinite. I can choose to be water that passes. A coldness that is incompatible with spirit torments my body. I am not sure if I want to be touched by the sky. How can I be water without longing for blueness of sky. I am disappointed by contradictions that soul has set for body. Pushed to the brink of a state without words my body blurts out a confession of true love for you. Dim lights are melancholic at dawn. My body looks forward to nothing. The cream of days is over. It is nothing or you. I look at you. My seriousness has a subtle effect on your palate. You are hungry for no reason at all. Lovers have no weather to claim for themselves. Love weathers all. The poetry of death is voice of the person missed in waterless paradise without a dancer. I live to stand by your side and watch the sun go to sleep in mountains among bushes and stones before waking up to light the lamp of day.


Empires are in love with dust. Empire-builders are sentimental men affected by the way things are. The backdrop of failure makes the fall of empire as real as folly of the empire-builder. No one contributes to the lifeblood of future but one who cannot distinguish dust from a dream. She functions in awareness that dust can be as deathless as dreams. The fate of lovers is determined by the timing of day. The day blurs into night with closing eyes of a watchman. The night bursts upon day with a bouquet of flowers. I give a thing that you may forget the thing. You remember the thing and you forgive me for expecting to be remembered. The thing is broken with time. The memory of the thing is intact. I rejected the thing before I gave it to you. You took it as gift that I very well knew you deserved. I received your time. In the brief span that you were with me I forgot all things. I could not forget you. I forgot myself. It was as if I had never been there. Only later the fact of memory appeared on scene. At those memorable points that I spent with you there was no memory. The things we do for memory. The sacrifices that memory demands of us are bewildering. I sacrifice memory for the joy of being with you. In the end empire-builders meet the same fate as lovers. Their dreams are dust. Out of dust of dreams I will rebuild the empire of love. I will derail the wheels of fate with a grain of sand. Why is that you never want things I give you? The absent gaze makes me feel that I offer a gift that is all but myself. I locked my heart with a picture of you within me and the keys are with you. Isn't that more than myself. You smile to assuage my conflicts. The smile hurt more than salt on wounds. I give you my wounds as tokens of memory. My pain is of little use to you. On the brighter side you need my pain to know your beautiful self. My pain is only a word. It is long gone. This might be romantic justification for irresponsibility in an all too real world. The warm days of winter and the cool days of summer constitute a version of love. I cannot give myself to you. I can give you to yourself. I can reciprocate a gesture that I do not see. The presence of the gesture is real as a rain cloud. In the gift of a gesture I changed the direction of my life. The elements of life would not leave me alone. In earth I became soil. In water I was liquid. In air I was breeze. In sky I was color. In fire I was heat. The elements that were me precipitated into music that was sweet murder of this useless body of mine. I did not die for you. I died for a thought. A thought in me died for you. In those billions of times that your eyes move around there is one look that I don't understand. I dare not give that look words. I cannot stop from searching into that look for meaning that can sustain music that murders me. The certainty of death I offer you. I could also give you my failure to understand you as a gift of all gifts. I choose to die for knowledge that had nothing to do with words. It was knowledge where colors existed for sounds. The fluidity of circumstances with a secret order governs the cult of your being. I belong to that cult at crossroads smoking marijuana and watching nightmares with disdain.

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