Jesus Christ
must have wondered
why, of all the infinite points
on the planet.
It is here, at Gethsemane,
the celebrated garden
in Jerusalem,
he must commune with
his Father,
alone, away from his sleeping gangmates
& agonize why
His will must be done?
Is it worth the bloody sacrifice?
The offer of innocent
animals or humans
is Jewish tradition…
In His name, therefore,
the Crusaders killed Moors
& heathens,
women were burned at the stake,
wars had been launched
to propagate the faith.
He was wiser than Nicodemus,
had foreknown the future.
But must follow
the holy message
from above…
Jesus Christ
at Gethsemane,
couldn’t fathom
God’s strange, cryptic ways?
It is supreme blasphemy,
of course,
to even raise
the possibility…

Her name
is at the tip of his tongue:
but the search engine
of his psyche
has failed to mark it down.
Has he succeeded
to trick himself
into forgetting
all the seasons of folly
& minor infamy?
She did exist, after all.
But when a woman
flashed her smile
at him who was walking out
of the lobby
& into the parking lot,
he was seized
by a spasm of familiarity
that turned him giddy,
also empty
as if strangely gripped
by the clammy hands
of personal history.
She, however,
as if to exorcise the spell,
must be named –
it is a power elders claim –
for she would as quietly
burst in the air
as he exits
through the glass door.
Is he lucky that way?
He, who is
forever damned,
is given to the ancient disease
of falling in love
so easily.

They agree
that a dear friend
whose mother
is convalescing from
an illness,
must be taken out
of their abode
that smells of liniment
& medicine
lingering the air.
Perhaps, to a concert
of a piano prodigy
& soothe her nerves
of insufferable ennui…
The patient has been,
of late,
allegedly petulant –
demanding of her children
extreme love & patience
as she nurses her pain.
But is she too damned old
to take note
of maidservant misery?
Too boorish/
of the minor others?
Asking too much of her brood
who dutifully labor
under the onus
of filial servitude?
O She has counted the years,
all right,
starting at the womb
when she carried them protectively
through the difficult childhood
when they cried
for solitude & care…
Is this payback time
for all the years
of female solitude?

He is loitering around
in search of familiar faces
on old campus
that can break
the monotony of a listless afternoon.
Days before summer break
& kids are deep
into the academic shit
of paper load…
Transfixed by computer screens
they cut & paste
pages of discourses
they don’t really mean –
but submitted
for official use only.
& when he comes around,
making out like some vagrant interloper,
they lift their faces up,
annoyed at the adventitious visit:
O remembering
how they have been incongruously
O He has known it before:
Odd man staying on the outside
& looking in.
He has not really belonged.
His presence
is ever an irreverent intrusion.
How long has this been
going on?
A decade? A century?
He was bumming along
that day.
O He didn’t know
how the moment could start,
or end.
Never aware of the tipping point
that would prove
something of the existential
would be beneficial or disastrous
for him, a statistical monad,
swimming in daily crap.
O He was not inclined
how things would eventually add up.
But when she smiled at him,
he was despondently perplexed
at such luck.
So much encountered trivia
of surprises to weigh,
so may ghosts of losses to exorcise.
The morning after,
he’ll surely go about
his stolid business of busyness,
heavy with the stoic presentiment
he can never be
a mathematician,
nor a prophet.
His third eye
is finally shut down.

On the cosmic radar
he won’t be worth a blip.
How he must exist that day
is left to pure chance.
Being mirthful or sad,
like any ordinary bloke,
is never in the equation
of human governance.
Is he an insect,
like Kafka’s
in social landscape?
He ends up
with eyes shut open
like a stage curtain
half-pulled down.
Will there be voices
to massage the spirit
as the moon edges up?
Will he seize the day
when night is forever
on sight?
No one answers
but himself
who only hears
the thumping of his heart.
Is this the essence
of solitude?
Monks are better off,
even if they commune
among themselves
in silence.
Amelia Earhart,
who vanished mysteriously
in the South Pacific
in her attempt
“to become the first female
to circumnavigate the world”
may have “managed
to land on a reef…
and lived for days or weeks.”
The high-tech
probe of an old photograph
showing a “blurry object
sticking out of the water…”
Yes, after 75 years
of incessant searching for clues
there seems to be
that wished-for closure.
& he, the reader,
on a reflexive mode,
seeks the point
in his life
he can finally adduce,
if at all,
in the mathematical pattern
of his trajectory?
Is he purblind
or what?
But in the summing up,
by whatever calculus,
he won’t be around
to confirm or deny
the mutable facts.

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