the bus. the beige. the indestructible. is always here at 6, near the corner of the pitch of cobblestones housing the one grocery in Al Khan that kept the tabs open for its shoplifters. it is sometimes here at 6:20 but only if Mr. Billal holds it up for his 3 kids, straight As, always groggy for roti and chole.

Stephen’s iPod. from which he offers one earphone. still don’t care much for the playlist. but we do listen to smells like teen spirit, religiously, cranked up and without remorse.
Astro turf, and you would return for rollcall with something dislocated. the line of sight to the opposing net points to a who’s who of oligarchs, the sheikhs with oil money, the young lords in finance, others in less respectable professions.

They give Irtaza shit for his weight. And he, mashallah, still, does not give a shit. i liked him. even after he tackled me to the ground to tell me that I was ugly as fuck. and definitely not his type.

You hang out at the western wall of the basketball court. public. wild incisor sticking out your gums. six times out of ten in the process of being greeted. You are never catching your breath.

I am hiding in the prayer room. the bills are paid. the conductors’ hands are forsaken piston rods. like an iron up and down the seam. crisp over the yoke. tunneling. being saved. confessing. underwhelming. being done.

There is always a line to the water fountain at 7:55.





you fell my walls like the whispers cutting through a funeral procession

you unfurl my arms, folded up since the dawns lit October,

you incite panic like ambulance sirens whiffing through traffic,

you send blisters shooting like fiends across my skin–shedding tissue, conspiring, bursting into tears.

I am afraid.

I am afraid.


The checkpost is still up.

We are fighting for the checkpost.


Carry the portable radio reciever from the props wadrobe at FDC

In case the policeman decides, in spontaneity, that he wishes to switch alligiences.

আর নকশাল।

The camps breeds two strands:

I. You are the deep state. You may or may not survive the rollbacks and coup d’ètats which audit like primary school routines. In the latter case, and if you have kept your head low enough, you die a Mosaddegh. If not, you may, depending on future fiduciary happenstance, be accorded a posthumous state burial. The former does not exist.

II. You stay in the camp.

Art: Yasmin Jahan Nupur

Couture II: Annexation

Couture II: Annexation

*Rajar Matt, Bandarban*

From the Green room.
Enter stage right.
The Bohmong King folds onto his throne:
Kerchief coronating kingdom
The silk melts,
Dripping gold down
The proscenium arch
Mummifying the dagger at his waist.

The entourage:
In military camo.
In Mujib coat.
In suit tailored for retirement.
They, for this day, entertain the daughter as head of household.

Banner hangs over,
Photo-shopped by zero hour,
The scripts are hierarchy.
The Bengali:
In defeated anorexia,
The matra marshaling legion in riot gear.
The Rest:
Escape distinction.
By the others’ choice.
Trickle down.
The Marma;
The Chakma;
The Matrilineal;
The Indigenous;
The Tribe.

We are gathered here today
For the Punnyah

The circle of the King
Are heirs to khazana,
Their palmar creases
Dug like moats of custom
Where written laws wither.

*Bain Weaving*

The warp strung to a post,
Strapped to her back.
She pulls.
The spine tightens,
Excuses the loom stand,
At ease again.
Beater nurses the weft into position.

The time signature flaunts
Not the testosterone of the adda,
The awe and collapse of the bazaar that
Deals in counterfeit.

The fabric resists craft
And for this reason is beloved by the tourist,
Mounted on Chander Gari,
Who yawns chasms at the unfinished shawl.
Draping it around her shoulders
Assigning it her sweat,
Braiding it mute.

The Anatomy of a Mourning

The Anatomy of a Mourning

Flanked by kin
Holding up the stretcher,
The white sheet charting your casing like the afternoon mowing down inner cities.
The mosque hurling the compassionate to your side
To temporarily wreck their composure
Uncovering how you were a pillar of the community,
Your tenants took a furlough from their inflation adjusted lives
And stuffed their mouths and shot their feet under the flash of cold showers.
Doorbells ducked into tin-foil wraps,
Dirty dishes into slumber parties going through laminated albums

No one said it was your penchant for red meat,
Or the hostility of habits to diabetes,
It was: ‘remember how he used to keep to himself mostly, but was a good man.’
It was: ‘he is survived by his wife, five children, and ten grandchildren,’
The likes of who will gargle the holy water used to bathe their wounds.

airborne, centrifugal–the missionaries are coming; the missionaries are here

airborne, centrifugal–the missionaries are coming; the missionaries are here

Qandil Mounts.

Priyo kochu shag,
Where would you be, but hearthed in the sahib’s tandoor
Stick lapping chin,
Expression of Interest fluttering manger,

Puffing alluvials from the surface, from the teeth of Alliance Fraincaise’s pleas for “we have to charge 500 for entry,

karon khet mujur der dite hobe”

Chunarughat er special economic zone hok kintu okhane hok, okhane, okhane, away from life, as we have known, away from the sheaths of our sickles, and where our thumbs don’t ring with dreams of dreams of malnutrition,


Ultras peak– Badsha rajshashi theke workers party niye esheche, kintu na,
Uni dhaka, sathkira, protek bhumi rakkha commitir uppojati ahobayok hoye eshechen,
“duniar mojdur ek howe, ek howe, na” hasan bhai bolen, oi hasan jini marx er chetona ek jon 19 bochori ke bujhate chesta korchilen, kal rate, oi eki raate onar walton motorcycle jongole lukhio porlo, never to be seen again; ekhon marx ney, akhon shudi illiteracy.
monajat dhori amra, baddho hoi.


Is there rope?

That is our position on voting against the boat.

Amader lash er upor diye.

How would one then go about convincing oneself that it is somehow possible that ek shondhar pangla-ghontay biplob ghoshona hobe?


Photograph: Jani na

beyond: unbreachables

beyond: unbreachables

and. so. i wrote this in

Mitzvah- regarding eight documents from the red corridor

“land to tiller, hope to pilfer,

Your struggle for busts,” Green Hunt

Cantos the Party’s Subpoena into portable iterations for masses, so that they, and we, only in relation to they, might in their amusement arks, built on bubble fiat;
international simulacra spanning slutty as air hostess, traversing in hebetude, the penchants of prostitutes to promiscuity.
Blazoned by our ideologues, they shall surrender, without demonstration, their vaginas, their penises, their penises, their vaginas, their neutered xx. xy. XXYY.XYY.XXX.48, XXXX.49, XXXXX. their audited chromosomes for lysenko, as he wheels their cots into nourishing stoves, pouring them, and this. to mention that we are also in the tub with them, our, their soggy batter molded into insurrectionary great leaps forward

Of charu’s politburo posing under green screen intravenous with the tiger reserve, where she had already succumbed to the prey-of-the-day, to the

bauxite, the ore in the collapsing mines breaking into choirs crooning hey ya, hand me some manganese, some nickel, some Bhattacharjee mouthfucking tribal uncivies; Nandigram intoning Hey Jude to the cover of Ma Mati Manush, and the Neo-Jiangxi Soviet crumbled under in it’s own beat.

P.S. Annie Lebovitz was no were to be seen. and So. the electorate complained about not being able to own land in Srinagar.

the Renault picket groove in iambic pentameter. not really. why would i?


the worker’s were agitating in ways which affronted public decency.

and so our correspondent Leyla Zana filed these couplets channeling interviewees under Article 301 of the penal code:


our pensions bleed for the turkish soil
these unpatriots, in hell, may they boil


indeed, stainless hard work will make joy
for country, for capital won’t remain coy

Standard & Poor’s:

Cotillard, won’t you, oh won’t you, break my picket groove?

Suchagro Medini

watching your efficiency in training, I can only say that you’re truly a force built with the spirit of the War of Liberation,

And this will speak to the love in our hearts, the love, which jostles plate tectonics as if she were fingering herself, her population, her son, her head of IT, her sister, the Berliner, her Russel, her Russel, her Russel, who if his grey matter were not corrosion to major javelins, were he not subterranean indemnities, were he not her mother’s son, were she not a call girl for festoons, like her husband, my father, for the men without tongues to parrot shuvo. shuvo. shuvo. dins, for my Fazila-tunnesa, mother who was so slow to fellatiate father’s lithosphere, so he could not hand the ringer to Jamil, his Shafat Jamil, his Shafiullah, his Osmani, his unamed General who was aware but was not aware, who was elegied but was not elegied, was efegied, but not efigied, and my father’s sons, Huda, and Noor, and Dalim, and Farooq, and Rashid who were in the lavatory, on the roof, the patio, the lake, upstairs to the answering machine, where my father hung up and তাকে রক্ষা কর. and Russel, their brother–the national whipping boy, the 21, the 26, the 16 huddle, point, screenplay that we heard from our verandas:

Her Russell,

Her Russel.

                                            Her Russel.


intra arterial Kuomintang in communists

intra arterial Kuomintang in communists

Ambassador Moriarty stressed that the USG had started human rights training for RAB. He added that the RAB was the enforcement organization best positioned to one day become a Bangladeshi version of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation.

nom de guerre– 8888

garrote atrabilious,

low-spirited deck guzzle Epifanio

de los Santos Avenue

“But history’s final accounting has yet to be completed.”

Kaka tries to get Didi alone,

Apnara ghure ashen, ami ar didi ranna kori,

ofcourse, Bidhan couldn’t leave,

he was taking on responsibility,

this courtship was more babysitting than honeymoon,

so, we stayed.

listened to dialects speak Maitongsori,

and how i had called it shamuk my entire life,

but couldn’t tell that cows had been interned,

yet, claimed shamuk for myself,

because i cannot memorise dialects

Tlatelolco –A Counter-Memory

suko na! talo kana! marcos, Aquino, CPP-NPA-NDF, Arroyo layas na

Ersatz, Chakma mal, ase, ehane, kintu,

he said,

to the racially neutral boat passengers,

as if they didn’t know,

but they didn’t know,

and the roofs of their mouths, hung dysphoric,

at the renaissance hill carvings,

shitted him-selves for not collaring the GondolaMan

and shoving A mujib or two into his brassiere;

so, the pirateers continued to tickle his nose,

and he continued to awwww, runny-eggs,

They don’t look like a heavy lot, said the Bangalees,

let ’em pass.

Zhao Ziyang 


National School Bus Glossy Yellow doesn’t stop at the Lower West Side,

You know full well,

thammasat and athens are grifters

dolling out ISBNs at black market rates,

Those bodega’s are now, 711s,

Would it be too much for you to jackhammer your gossamer theresabout, isabella?

and your pro forma erotica, juan, check the delicatessen around the block.

All my sons are autodictacts *Sigh*

the daugters autodictacts la puta 



I wish I could hold to my neck and embrace the little arms, and bear kisses on the tender lips. Go on, doll, and trust your joys to the winds; believe me, light is the nature of men

where art thou, locomotive catamite.

anodyne only works when the object is unexceptionable.

tis’ all bourgeois decadence, after all.

Photograph: Narendra Shrestha

when Lean, Green T & motherwife go out to play

when Lean, Green T & motherwife go out to play

Crush glass after use,
Frozen drinks,
Italian burger,

I m sitting,
Waiting for my basket of chicken.

Booth, top right–

Suit jacket casually,
Can’t go to the washroom–bathroom if i am being homely, thudding on the ‘a’

Lean, green T
Long time, no see, the missus and the kid(s) have drilled into my fraternity

Aloof, third wheel,
Maybe monogamy isn’t that bad, not that i would like to find out.

Booth, bottom right,

Infant, ampersand?

Mother, like mandarins, malta was the word, but my thumbs shiver at pointing bi-lingual dis-ingenuity. And why is it, that she be mother first, wife second, caretaker 3rd…

…maybe not the last one,
There are certain metonyms, yeah that’s what they are called, i think
Like streets of paris–meaning i don’t know, anything from high-couture to toaplaceyouhaveneverexperiecednostalgic for.
Um, and san-francisco, which is liberal or experimental, very artsy, not like paris though, no,
But, what really stands out is africa, on the rare occasion, i can identify a specific locale, it is more likely a reference to something primalordeal, like the sahara, or grasslands, or if you are really feeling adventurous even lions, or gazelles, or god forgive you, cheetahs.
No haight-ashbury, no left bank, only victoria falls, and the pyramids…
Which brings me to you,

work for motherwife, you play with infant seated opposite to her. She laughs. Infant gesticulates, you laugh too. I can’t identify you though, your damp-looking bland dress is one i cannot differentiate from the ones that i have seen in, i was going to say under rubble of factory collapses, but that would just be a lie, because i have seen those only on tv or on drivebys, i am told, so instead i will say, various invitations to the self-identifying middle class, which doesn’t really mean anything, and is amorphous as smoke, thus the prefix, because, i am told, again, that engineers earn way too much for, houses, which have perhaps taught me, through my disgust of them, the overuse of parenthesis.
You stood there under the kitchen door frame,
It’s not that the clothes you all wear are the same color or something, it’s just that i honestly cannot tell you apart, you all look the same to me,
not heterogeneous organisms to respond to stimuli, but, swallow them on all fours.

The caretaker, the child bride, dowry with a bobby pin, assimilator, party cannon, union card-holder, depoliticized hack, one time muse, art gallery centerfold, post-structural thesis,

you change her diapers,

I fall,
And The earth, tilts on its axis
A little,
Every Time you learn how to nod in deference say–no, thank you,



Stories percolating through
streaming brunette:
The kingdom gates open–
circle to hustle the raconteur
for tales of her journey

Lashes bow:
“Wait for me, won’t you?”
I’ve been locked in the tendrils of your lunacy
since 14.

Did your hometown Rockies quiver at the shudders of your mouth?
Fearing what unknowns you may spear next.

How do those same lips
that pout such deep pink
arouse tempests that melt snow caps to mountains’ knees.