pop’s culture

i: manifest destiny
       Grandpa:                              Dad:                                        Son:
i am raised in the soil						              
                                i am raised in your smelly arms         i am raised by misfits
                                                                                                                                          
sharp smells of fertility
surround me					
                         but i am consumed by the pungent odor of missing out
Vegetation 
                                 and the turmeric of my ancestors.
wafts through the air, filling 
								                    my essence
							                  with your coveted spices
                                     i am only temporary in 
my village
and the warmth of
							 european images blind me from you.
                             the scheme of scent is subdued because
                                        i am too indian                                                
 										
you cannot compare
                                     i live in between worlds
				                                     where melanin precedes monologue
i feel the aromatic apotheosis
                                     where i become divine
				                                        and 
in Jaipur,
                               they all stink, no matter where i go
India                                                                  reeks.                                                                                                                             

ii: interlude
  
     amidst all the american dreams    you lie, still as ever      ephemeral beauty fleeting	
         whispering sweet melodies	quieter, quieter,  echoing through my head now          then gone.     does the trinity save you or are you on your own?		does history delude you? 
    with the spirits of the future, i pray		to transport your transitory soul to Nirvana
  up there, do you miss our sweetheart?	              do you miss how she coaxed your sweet heart?   
       be met with no divine indifference		 may all your problems be heard     may your skin be coated with shades of columbian sunsets and indian sunrises		    fragmented,     
      dispersed throughout the world   stories etched onto pages,   appraised by the saints
.saints who spilled milk on your head and tore off your flesh, revealing white-hot temper below	
        i pray the pages of their belief, their purpose, metamorphose 	    into what it claims

iii: finale

[“Hard times create strong men, strong men create good times, good times create weak men, and weak men create hard times.” -G. Michael Hopf]