Speaking in Tongues

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Maturity stayed elusive to me, whereas she appeared to have matured into ciphertext of some kind. Back then, I grew people, rivers, trees, cities, and a ‘make-do’ self too.

SourDog could read my heart, sit on my tongue, and become me. I often flaunted my new wisdom with a stoic gait and a furry quiet, when the rest of the world continued with its clamorous ways. People, all too people!

Time was never linear. I knew this when I stole it. Every day, I pocketed an ounce of my own time and buried it beneath the birch tree. If you do it right, you grow an entire second tree inside the first. A forest inside a tree. A world within a world. Some days, I switched off my main-time and sat under the tree within the tree, unnoticed, unremembered.

A person sitting in a bus is neither a person nor a machine, but an unstable compound. Once the veil of self ruptures, it either becomes “the other” or it heals in odd ways, locking in the other inside — forever. I can tell when I see people walking with that peculiar limp, if there were other people living in their heads like a cyst.

A SourDog sat on my tongue. I speak what he tells me to. I can’t swallow it; it will kill both of us. Some venom I swallow, the rest I spit out. Everybody lives.

Ready to WheatPaste In Toronto | 21st Feb 2025

 WHEATPASTE 

There's a slit in my basement wall
a streak of light used to slip in
wash my face—
every day.

Now it's all built-up
blue bins lining the street—
new condo stole my ray.

But I still sit in the same spot
facing the slit, I masterbate
my neighbour's sight slips in
Dirty hands—
Wheatpaste .