rolling on the inside circumference of the circus sphere.


The trucks that go by are marked like

party vehicles for la Dia de los Muertos.

The wind pampers my face, loosening

my lips so I can smile at the

sky dancers outside. Like a heavy

rain sliding down a stationwagon window

the world outside cascades forever

provoking tidal waves of sensation in

my form. A truck sealed with Shiva’s

face squonks directly in my ear,

announcing the transport of livestock.

The colors are unimaginable

The movement is unhindered.

A procession of trucks and buses rolls on

through — “SPEED CONTROL“, a side

angle of Lord Shiva, Baba Travels and Tours

Unlimited, Bro’s Yatayat, Ganesh like a

Japanese cartoon embracing a lingam with affection,

tired and amazed faces beyond number, wise eyes

painted gaudily below headlights squinting into the distance, gods encased in

plastic cubes for a holding tank of frontal protection: it’s

all so much like a circus

with an elephant god as the ringmaster.


Every circus has its end, but

the show must go on. Dirty

bags of rice are carried on kids’

bicycles, and dust seems to seep up

from the ground like geyser-streams.

A man pushing Royal Everest Ice Cream

on children

makes a score

and squeeks away.

A brick shack standing strong with its

roof held down by rocks, bricks, and at least

seven tires

must be making some kind of proclamation.

Orange sparks of love fly when the

man welds iron scrap together

for some hidden purpose. Young guys

smile at me — it’s hard to know why

I am always so amusing

— aside from the obvious. Bemusement

is always thick in this atmosphere:

even more than dust.

Bus Leaving Kathmandu Going Back to Indi

%d bloggers like this: