I.

Ganesha, the world is at the tip of your trunk

O my god! It is you, their god! Their Ganesha!

At your purest form you appeared to me in all fours.

Of all the places you chose Carriedo

your body barely fitting from the crowd

we stagger in the slowness of this bodily current

going in every direction.

To think that I am innocent from the chicanery of Ganja,

Did your radar ears hear my cries?

I feel the physical fact of your white skin, mythical, but no different

Than the sofa we sleep with, clearly

from the immense taste of hell in this summer afternoon,

probably I am minutes away from yielding to dehydration.

Never thought that I would adore your acorn eyes,

sprouting behind your Venus flytrap eyelids.

Now you are offering yourself: I I am too much of a sinner

to sit on that carpet, knit with sacrosanctity, on your back.

O white elephant god of wisdom!

Bless me with your golden shower,

pungent with salvation.

Why yes, after this, I am no longer the same person.

I shall get off you the fashionable way: slide like a child

befriending gravity and glide from your trunk.

Like the way the world has always been: back and forth

From your forehead to the tip of your nose.

II. After Adventure Time

I am waiting in front of your house standing next to this empty highway.

I pan my vision, a castle of bricks not far keeps the sun

on one of its clock towers and

a patch of sunset on the other side of the sky.

I peek from the punctured holes of your door screen,

Seems like there is a party going on at your living room.

I cannot believe that some of my colleagues, my sister,

my band, and that stray cat we picked up last October are invited;

Everyone is having fun so much that no one notices the Domino Pizza at the table.

After minutes of searching for you in the house, you are not actually there.

I have no other words to say anyway so I tried to walk away

And find my way home.

Suddenly, people sprouted like mongo seeds on the asphalt.

Campaign jingles, a marching band sprouted as well in exchange for silence;

someone is at the podium at a firetruck ladder, throwing candies

and smelly T-shirts to everyone in exchange for their cheers and gratitude

for his unholy presence; that someone was a living remnant of what was

once evil in our land. I struggled my way out of this godforsaken crowd.

I have nothing to see so I tried to walk away

And find my way home.

Two men, wearing bright colored military jackets, tapped my shoulder;

The bearded one with round glasses tells me in a language I know

if that“bongo brain” wins, he and the other one with an overbite but seems

nice and quiet, will appear to the last two living members

of their band, once big, once close to being gods as well but got beat up

when they went here, and tell them to just imagine playing here again.

I turn my back and your house is gone.

I turn my back again, the motorcade and the two men vanish.

Every time I turn my back, everything just keep on changing

and changing and changing but it does not change anything

whatever is between us now at all.

Now find myself knocking at my own house and yes,

it was you behind the door screen, unlocking the door

--a consolation from this search of destination, full of fiasco,

on my way home.

III. Unholy Storm

It is raining children’s books 24/7 in this city

where no one minds getting hit in the head.

Everyone is busy rummaging for happiness

at malls near them, slashing their credit cards

for a good night sleep.