First and foremost

First and foremost...


Happy belated anniversary to my parents.
You know i love the two of you, and am always grateful.

-------
Its not Misogyny, dammit
by Rishik Menon


When you see the moon, do you see perfection?
An orb, illuminant, a sideless sphere?
Or do you see diana? The beauty of woman
captivating from afar, corrugated when near.

----

Its not quite why we dont engage in postcard showdowns

by Rishik V. Menon

I sit down on tiled slides in midnight playgrounds
and wonder if the first world is all its made out to be
and if there is any lace of irony
in that idea, thought out by me
in my black Pierre Cardin shirt and pants
as i sip down a cultural statement of green tea and vodka.
there is no denying the universality of youthful rebellion.
but this relativity of visions for my future is
taking my westernized mind frame by storm
as I ricochet between disparate lives
resting on dissimilar clouds that risk
to rain on this personal parade of my hopes and dreams.
why was i feeling troubled by the distance
that lay between the movies and my home?
how have i resisted this enchantment of
snow and suits and business meetings at coffee joints for so long
when the star dust from which I was made from
now seems compelled to align to that constellation.
what had gone wrong, and who was that little homunculus inside me
to pass that value judgement in me to say it was wrong in the first place?
was i not satisfied with the cold smooth slabs of
void deck chairs and tropical twilight winds
which would wash our face in a spray;
always saltwater, ever fresh.
I certainly wasnt. I was more than satisfied. I was enthralled.
I loved the quiet buzz of cicadas (not crickets)
as we rolled from tableau to tableau of still coffeeshop life
which could have come from any of the past 4 decades.
I revelled in the orange hue of streetlights, in the uncover of night
where obsolete police cars roamed absurdly,
as if on a documentary, where we were the natives.
But somewhere along the yellow lines
between the parks and race tracks
where the smell of motorcycle diesel
led our way from fishing points to 7-11s
we got lost. or at least i did.
and the pine scented fresheners are clouding
that unpleasant odour of prawn in my tackle box
and i cant find my way home.
I know its night, and I know its wet.
I know the night is young and all but yet, yet
I just dont have any idea where the hell I am heading,
or if thats a head on which Im sitting.
So i continue to ponder, and soon i start to wonder
if the moon seen from our starless skies,
and safe glass-domed nights is the same moon
that reigns from the view of a Boston apartment
a london skyline or a Parisian bar.
And maybe im cracking my head over nothing
and maybe this slide is getting the better of me
as my toes feel intoxicated from the ethereal dew on
the granular sand of this unromantic land.
..Well... I do know its the night, and i Do know it is wet
and too late to think of a fight, and yet and yet,
maybe dreams are dreams by virtue of the fact they dont come true
and maybe the moon will not help me reconcile
my hopes and dreams of the two.