Friday, September 19, 2014

Open Secrets

The private man has no secrets
He doesn't carry an agenda for he has none
Nor is he seasonal
His battles are timeless and timeless are his battles
He faces his personal ghouls like he’d a newborn foal, in fascinated care and wide eyed wonder
He does this with no regrets
That’s why he's a private man with public access
He once wore a mask that was bare, naked and open
They tried to veil him down but he kept undressing the gown
The mask he wore had see-through holes like a proud old fisherman's casting net
The kind that traps aquatic life delivering fish that’s fresh
On the other spectrum there's the public man
Who tells you most gravely the necessary exclusion, isolation and execution of everything that's private, personal and beloved
He’ll make you laugh even if deep inside he’s shattered and broken, that private man
He lives a token life and yes, he used to be married, and as such, had a wife followed by the natural sequel of strife
He’s into Ahimsa, refusing to grab even a kitchen knife
That made cooking somewhat of an ad hoc adventure
When he hit the late twenties he became a father
The birth of a baby boy was his to cherish forever
To put it nicely
That moment was and still is his mythical memory
Now and then he'd relive those imageries ever so fondly
You see
This private man wasn't the type to plan a family, much less a clan
He'd go with astrology, predestined cosmology, and providence wearing a cryptic simile
And the stars gave him a jolt
It was alright he mused
That’s what sparks off life’s rejected fuse; explosions can be of use
So he'd made his truce with this Zenned Haiku- 'Blinding fog, No light- Its all right'

His boy’s now twelve, although yesterday he entered number thirteen, now beginning the years of the hyper teen
What could he do? Nothing- said the man of secrecy, everything is an experiential odyssey
That was his honest ruse, privately opening up to the masses, he publicly engaged the classes
He’d even coined this term, like the bumper sticker that stated ‘make love not porn’
He jazzed this one- ‘make public what’s private’
For what has a man got to lose but his lies
For he’s a poignant fool and a susceptible male
The man lives in open concealment
Where he performs solitary engagement
The two faces he maintains has nothing to do with duplicity
Rather it’s to gab
Have a natter and banter
With his personal and professional avatar
Nor is it a frontage of concealed duality
His secrets are as notorious as the suspicious working mechanisms of the bureaucracy
I don't know much but I’m aware of the man’s silent tears when he watches old films
In times of anarchy he even cries at thirty-second adverts on TV
And when classic old tunes play on the radio he faithfully gets infected with melancholy
The first time he was really sick the self-diagnosis was nostalgia
He never bothered with seeing shrinks or doctors
For some baffling reason he found it cheeky
The wholesomeness had become ugly
As time sauntered and sprinted by he became increasingly sentimental
And breaking down his life up to now he added the years
Four decades had gone by with an additional year of two in his current tallies
Looking lost and furrowing his eyebrows as if sensing through those hair follicles some vibe in the air he spoke languidly
He said the first decade was a sort of trial by error

An accidental wisdom
Like discovering the movable knee cap, which kept him gripped for days on end
It was a chance discovery, and as discoveries go they all seem to stumble upon what’s already here, making loud claims such as the discovery of the new world, and others of lesser note and anonymity 
Then comes these sanctified seven deadly tablets of antiquity:

Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy & Sloth Along with Levity, Gravity, Infidelity, Carrots, Spaghetti, Politicality & Colored Jelly
Now drawing laughter but not  ridicule
The secret man then found out public hotspots where boys could be boys (that's to say they played with their dongler toys)
Other than that the recollection was pretty much summed up when he said it was sort of fun, and that no matter how hard he tried, a lot of those early years just seem to slip by, leaving behind residual dregs of feelings with vague familiarity

But as a boy the man loved the pouring tropical rain
The monsoon falls begin pounding down with lighting thunderous fireworks up in the sky and down on the tin-sheet roof
It was the most assuring sound the man had ever heard
He'd sleep alone listening to the music of the falling water drops, which was his favorite part, hitting where it feels the most pain- in the heart
It was always an intense experience, now he knows the right expression, it was 'rapture'
Amongst other remembrances, this imagery of the falling rains was his fondest

When the secret man outgrew his singular years
he became doubly delightful
As with any tropical place the water was yet again
the element where he sought protective refuge
It was this shelter from the storm that kept him alive. He'd been somewhat reformed, indeed the man was reborn but sadly without the scorn; for scorn is good-
it reminds you to be true through and through
Most days he'd swim with his buddies but on others they'd catch a fish and fry it on a panhandle
Eating brunch or an early supper right next to the hidden pool lying out like a Zen garden with big moist rocks and wind sculpted boulders

These boyish years were exploratory, wet and deeply felt
As he hit puberty the man took full liberty
His workshop was his own body
Let’s just say like any pubert he had his sensational moments most of which were pretty zipped and ripped
Understanding the link between outer skin, inner flesh and solid bones within-
he noticed emotional moans
He was one hard working exuberant teen
This is where our man of many secrets and two faces made his entry, into the out-worldly network of life in realms of a young man in his twenties
He speaks possibilities
Gets a dose of ecstasy
He was mostly busy doing whatever was fun, easy and racy
Until one day he hit a wall of weed
A garden of grass
And now that the scene was changing he was mostly spending his time getting cultured in matters of unconscious living in a boarding college called Shercol Marijuana

It was grand and the world was a magical mine
Equipped with extra-sensory perceptibility he went deeper to the core
Where he’d discover love, music, literature and more
Along with something else that was far more sinister
The quest for enlightenment that got him locked in a dark underground bunker
He went voyeuristic in his mentality, often at odds with life’s dicey lots
On campus our man was a singular entity
He'd go and devour books in the library, relishing works of yore, stuffing in ancient works of wisdom, where he’d only suffer from the boredom in the kingdom syndrome when his chemicals would go awry
He’d become an intellectual, a philosopher, seeing himself as a maturing renaissance man
He rejected all hints of delusionary diversions
Having said that, he made it clear that he wasn't being rude, crude or much less a prude
He only saw the possibility of understanding some of what goes on in the country-
The galactic celestial cosmopolitan skies of space and back to where we were fated-

A picturesque hamlet in the east
With mountains, meadows and groves
Hillocks and brooks
Farms and fields
Cattle and crop
And the legendary brewsters of an acidic local specialty he’d called the 'corn-booze'
Thus quenched and hung up and sobered he'd head to the library
Reading masters of old
He’d find himself immobile and static
Touched by the bewildering forms of life
And thus rejuvenated, he'd lay on the warm empty midnight highway
Gazing upon twinkling mountain skies
Lost in space
Feeling the gut
His talks would mute and the breath would rise in warm vapors of mystical smokes
Flummoxed at the juxtapositions of this thing and that
He saw links here, there and everywhere
From the maddest Ork to the gentlest Elf
He began living in the wholesome hole
There the buffering was never on hold

The wilderness was the first paradoxical gambit he’d wagered on and at long last, he understood
where he'd stay. Drawing a deep long sigh at the beautiful prospect of living as one even if they were each christened with their own identity
This was now one collective unity
Spirited in two bodies
With no secrets
With no regrets
In private parts Or public places

Art: Nicholas Roerich
Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

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