Rupi Kaur. Let that name just sit there for just a second. Maybe even a moment. Being the “Instagram poet” is actually a great thing when you see how much further her work reaches the masses. Two best selling poetry book, and a moment ago I remember multiple people (experts!)…

Saccades in September Vive la Vie Plump doors The sky is a runway to a brewed comatose Coddled from each passing noon in September at intervals of a walkway — drummed, Too More plump doors Cut by September The Seasons, dig into the comatose, Lifts at noon, the reels Dwindles the plump doors A spirited eye fixes…

Formiddable

Bezels enwreathe of the ellipsis Souvenir Tipped in the scales — a fit! Lagrange was it? apside a spindle of red herrings, barred— A shelved meniscus, unweathered, the crux without leathering Tuition, like a bolt of sleeves, imagineering unseen, Fourier freeze And a berth solemn in the buoyant force— Boutique, — a column beauty —a girth, fasten to a girdle near, and escaped heights, arrays flashes inside.

A Dovetail from the Meniscus My eyes would catch the sky — light-hearted until the trance — horizon buckled down deep into my pockets, Enlighten, squared and steep in time, but with each return to the dawn With the courier Sun, And the sky sits there synonymous with each passing Souvenirs what was possibly undreamt, without coasters, just floating Like a hippo camp, An ardor push narrower and narrower under the hippo camp

A steam engine full of bayonets pause When the weather steepens And looms, Beauty becomes a sort of meniscus while faces don’t change, The world — pregnant with ammunition steadfast keys piano, and fortissimo, moderate builds, Moderate party And the lull rampant, Unhurried a busy street Takes snowing, A petal hovering, That long lull

To be penless is not a privilege — it's an artifact, and only the road is kept dreamt. Whereto for a cheered living. — Your poetry will not be televised. It will be read. Literate by you. Cut off the revolutionist’s silhouette arm and find a new banner. That deep place where you close your eyes, but do not tell yourself if you're nearby. Pierce it. Raise your concerns. Poetry is a request that…

The Cowl I went to the black holes flipped in my NREM-3 sleep with the idea that the ideation hadn’t started, An event horizon, bedrock in a lure, sediment, a stare down the steepest of wells Gouging at a window, waking up to entropy, Cartesian light, onto genesis, was light, and the escapism Of the world, The many…

Memories keep you reminiscing — Priming the moving target A pocket of time can be a swath, A rouse Like an oath, it sets apart the natural world A cold breath, but its timing collects as you come together fungible as well, corners of the world In the distance can be heard, “Let’s go.” The Shrink is on the way. Everything is going to be alright, Onsets a big-picture, broad and boasting But not yet spreading,