Singular Universe

“What you do not have you find everywhere.” — W. S. Merwin


Words harden in recollection.
Pull each one towards you,
cry like they seem evil.

Lay out some traps 
for half a dozen—it’s a craft:
fool an infinitive 
into holding out for hope.

You don’t need 
a permit to live inside your head—
put a foot on the ladder. 

Copy out a line:
the sounds of a singular 
universe being built.




Call to Action


A great deal of latitude
and an abundance of caution
can be an isolating experience—
what greater enemy does one have 
than oneself?

When the ink hits the screen,
it is an indispensable bit 
of programming—the totality 
of what you did or said

in the aboveground world. 


Source: A remix/cut-up composed from select words and phrases found between pages 11 & 60 of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin.





The Creative Process 


Imagine the scent
of fine paper in summer—
a time when one’s taste exceeds 
one’s abilities.

To sense your decay
is not the same as loving it.
A bromide 

about the creative process 
is that you are often

nostalgic for a candy
you have never even tasted.

Or, to oversimplify, 
it is the erasure of mortality
in the sometimes-painful present. 



Source: A remix/cut-up composed from select words and phrases found between pages 20 & 86 of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin.




A Rainbow Every Day 

for R


Carry off a little darkness
one piece at a time. 
I’ve been around for long—
there’s a reason why all sinners are saints.

You’ll know it’s me when I come 
through the road to happiness. 
Allow me to introduce myself—
a victim of the times,
the gods they made
of you and me.

We didn’t start the fire
and tell the world that everything’s okay.
What else do I have to say?
I can’t take it anymore.
The words inside my head—a blitzkrieg—
but what’s puzzling you?

I get a unicorn out of a zebra,
the truth from a thousand lies.
I erase myself, clean this slate
with the hands of a believer.

I can’t be what I’m not.
There’s a game called circle— 
as heads is tails.

I’d love to wear a rainbow every day.


Source: A remix/cut-up composed from lines and phrases from the following songs: “Sympathy for the Devil” by Rolling Stones, “Man in Black” by Johnny Cash, “One Piece at a Time” by Johnny Cash, “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel, “Believer” by Imagine Dragons, “What I’ve Done” by Linkin Park, “No Matter What” by Boyzone, and “I’m Not Afraid” by Eminem.


Shloka Shankar is a poet, editor, and self-taught visual artist from Bangalore, India. A Best of the Net nominee and award-winning haiku poet, Shloka is the Founding Editor of Sonic Boom and its imprint Yavanika Press. Her debut full-length haiku collection, The Field of Why (Yavanika Press, India), was shortlisted for the Touchstone Distinguished Book Awards 2022. Website: www.shlokashankar.com | Instagram: @shloks23

Paradise

The light is growing dimmer

I cannot feel to cope

I hear less than a glimmer

of the prayer we call hope.

At night we clocked the bold stars

Felt waves of sweetened pine

Traced out maps of ancient scars

through tears that soothed like wine.

I dreamt I still might find you

We’ll ride that mountain train

Where comets trail behind you

and moonlight pours like rain.

Come watch that golden glory

Attend the sky with cheers

It shimmers like a story

told for ten thousand years.

Her midnight eyes are glowing

I swear they shine for me

And stardust keeps on flowing 

where heaven used to be.

Smoker’s Lament

I pace the halls like a zombie leaking

blood and fire:

It must have been the fog, injecting a 

disease I cannot bear.

But when I tried to set it down,

it burrowed into my throat.

I will never sing

at birthday parties again.

Turned out that sip of molten lava was

really an invitation to the cosmos.

All ‘round the rooms, explosive

tangles of lightning and wire.  

Their sizzling and thunder orchestrate  

like a sadist’s tune.

The waiting, at least, is familiar:

Remember those vacant afternoons

stoned on lethargy, confusion

dissipating to disgust.

Creeping shadows reflecting

the loneliness in your eyes.  

When you touched your face

you found it numb as earth,

like you were buried already.

On the Brink

The mountains stretch behind me

Wind blew me out of town

The morning sun will blind me

I rode the highway down

My friends won’t let me settle

I begged for scraps all day

Their mouths turned harsh as metal

They tore my heart away

The sweep of time will bleed you

It forces you to roam

Somebody else might need you

To find their way back home

A gauze of fog has lifted

As dawn broke through the cold

Bright banks of snowflakes drifted

I saw foothills painted gold

God’s Will

You stand against the gentle

tides, that urge you back

into the deep; this terror’s

surely racked your bones, to

cross that bright and mighty will.

Your sadness staring down

the surf, as glassy-green

as emeralds; the sunlight

glinting off the waves, and

dancing brightly in your eyes.

All the gifts you’ve conjured

up, and all the dreams that

colored you; they seethed until

they burned your hopes, and

dried your blood with bitterness.

You cannot let them pull

you down, and drown you in their

soothing waves; too horrible to

go in peace, then find your

soul still cries alone.   

A Silver Sea

If you are somewhere still

What a story that would be

Of a girl’s dance down a hill

to leap into a silver sea

Splashing far beneath the sun

Where the diamond waters glide

Drifting out till day is done

to disappear beneath the tide

Like a mermaid gently flows

Through shadows dim and deep

With her skin soft as a rose

and her face relaxed in sleep

What answers did you find

In hidden gold to take

Or leave untouched behind 

like ripples in your wake

The sea is dried away

Scorched by an aging sky

Then a field of ashes lay

where spirits went to die

The Nose
 

My nose has started to lean to the left.

It happens when you get old.

You’d like to stay on the straight old road

But you get old and lean to the left.


 

The path you’re on, it starts out straight.

To love, to truth, to fame.

Then the nose goes off on its own, on its own

And you circle back round to the grave.

Girlhood. 

I’m told girlhood is

short and sweet,

Girlhood means I am

meant to be,

I want to be,

sugar, spice, and everything nice,

and that is

femininity?

Picked apart and put back together

in every wrong order.

I am a girl, I am

fragile like a bomb

that lingers in the back

of my throat, bittering my tongue

like Tanqueray,

a mind rubbed away like

carpet burn, I am

pores clogged with

the spit of a man

trying to sink into my skin

a little deeper.

I am silent

as I try so desperately to

catch each tear and 

shove them back into 

my eyelashes so maybe

they’ll grow.

But I am as dank as my

washed up eyes

as they tell me

“you are a woman now,”

and I fear that is worse,

because the wreckage of

our worlds

looks a little prettier

when we are young,

before we can understand that

beauty is pain, and pain is the

true divine feminine

that I hate so dearly.

So society kisses my cheeks

in my final throes, lips wet

with the shame it spilt all over me

for being something as disgusting

as a woman.

Moon Song 

Necklace
I pinched metal between my thumb and forefinger,
and yanked
until my spine
s
l
o
p
e
d
and my forehead pressed against the carpet and
ached
with the
a
r
c
h
of my vertebrae.
I hung
myself

and hung the necklace
from myself. Leaving me
dangling,
until the etched metal etched
a strict tan line
into my collarbone.
And protected what's left of me
from the sun. The son
that I heard
had to be buried.
I hung
from her lips
“like the
Gardens of Babylon”
Giving and
taking
The Moon.
I tried to comfort me
with the
weight

of a 13 and a skinned hand and some
mountain
range.
on the chain
whose clasp
inches towards my heart
slower
and is turned
Away.
I pressed a song
into my forehead, forefinger, and necklace. A song
quieter now
a song
for
The Moon.

And then from the garden, into the kitchen

The heavy, pleasant weight of guava-scented flowers in your belly,
Tomato guts on shoe soles,
The way dirt dries in the creases at the bottom of your sneakers.
Try and remember the click of the screen door as you open it,
The screech it emits,
Shrill, noisy, and exhausted.

Remember the way the yard looked as you left it,
The bright greens of the leaves, trees, bushes.
The sharp contrast of the bulbous yellow lemons, bright juicy cherry tomatoes,
Pink zinnias and delicate purple flowers that 
You can’t help but look out on as you close the door behind you.

As you climb the stairs, each step unbending, 
hard and sudden on the arches of your feet,
Remember the slide of your steps against the painted white wood,
And the way you scraped the soft of your fingertip over the dark polished banister,
Seeking a splinter that wouldn’t pierce,
A piece you could hold in your hand.

Remember the woman in the kitchen,
Dark brown hair, debatably hazel eyes, swirls of blue on her oversized shirt.
Wrinkles marking the edges of a mouth that mirrored your own so remarkably,
Recall the face of the woman who stands in the kitchen, 
A number of feet from your own sweaty toes.

Remember the way you forgot to slip your shoes off,
And remember the way you only remembered this courtesy as you neared the top step.
The way you dashed back down, overwhelmed just as you were seconds ago, by 
the scent of the garden wafting through the screen door.

You slip off your shoes, 
And whip around quick as you can, white spots blurring your vision.
As you climb the stairs by two, skipping the step a dead bee has fallen on,
The kitchen grows nearer and nearer.

The room is monochrome, all the shades of the clouds 
making up the cupboards, sink, and cat bowls on the floor.
Finally, with your socked feet on the tiled kitchen floor, your auntie’s bedroom to your back,
Breath in her kitchen’s stale air, so different from the outside.
And accept the clutched handful of chocolate cherries she gifts you.

A Tip

            “Excuse me,” I said, “you dropped something.”

            The woman turned around. “I didn’t drop anything,” she said angrily, in an accent I couldn’t place.

            “Right there,” I said, pointing down at the sidewalk.

            “Oh, my coin purse! Thank you.” She picked it up. She took a quarter out to give me a tip.

            “Oh, please, no, it was my pleasure.”

            “What, my money’s not good enough for you?”

            “Of course it’s good enough for me, but I don’t need it.”

            “What makes you so special that you don’t need a quarter?”

            “Nothing. Nothing makes me special. So give me the quarter.”

            She gave me the quarter. I looked at it. It wasn’t a quarter. It was foreign currency from I didn’t know where.

            “This isn’t a quarter,” I said, “it’s a foreign coin.”

            “Well, aren’t you hoity-toity!”

            “I was just letting you know, in case you needed it.”

            “How dare you insult me! Do I look like I need a measly schmonski?”

            “Did you say schmonski?”

            “Yes, why?”

            “I’ve been looking for a schmonski for years, for my collection! I thought they were discontinued.”

            “This is a novy schmonski. The government started issuing them last year because the people were nostalgic for the schmonski.”

            “What’s a schmonski worth these days?” I asked.

            “About a quarter,” she replied.          

Clowns

            Two clowns were sitting at the booth across from my table at the diner. I didn’t think there was a circus in town, so I figured maybe they were booked for a kid’s birthday party or something. I know clowns have a reputation for being gruff and nasty when they’re off-duty, but I figured I’d try to chat them up. I walked over to their booth.

            “Excuse me, fellas,” I said, “I couldn’t help noticing your costumes, and I was wondering where you were performing.”

            They seemed confused. One of them said, “Performing?”

            “Yeah,” I said. “Is there a circus in town, or are you doing a private party.”

            They still looked confused.

            “We’re having lunch,” the other clown said.

            “Yeah, I can see that. Are you coming from the gig or preparing?”

            “What gig?” the second clown asked.

            “The clown gig.”

            They were silent.

            “I was just curious,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch. I’ll just leave you alone.” I was about to walk away when the first clown spoke again.

            “You seem to think we’re performers,” he said. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

            “The clown costumes!”

            “Costumes?” the other said, “These are our clothes.”

            “But aren’t you clowns?”

            “Of course we’re clowns,” the second one said. “But we’re not performers.”

            “I don’t understand. If you’re not performers, what do you do?”

            “I’m a dentist,” the first one said, “and he’s an accountant.”

            “Then why are you dressed like clowns?”

            They both looked at me like I was from another planet.

            “Because we’re clowns!” they responded in unison.