Not just because of my cold, cold heart, pumping absolute zero in the glacial void, do I not know anyone truly but also because of them, because of something unknowable in them. Maybe it’s better this way. Know one person truly and you know what they know— what they know about those they truly know and what the truly known know about the people they know. All those lives pouring in through the news feed, where is it going to end, and how will it end, wherever it ends?

  • Seshadri, Vijay – 3 Sections: Poems

Orwell says somewhere that no one ever writes the real story of their life. The real story of a life is the story of its humiliations.

  • Seshadri, Vijay – 3 Sections: Poems

Why I wanted to escape experience is nobody’s business but my own, but I always believed I could if I could put experience into words.

Now I know better. Now I know words are experience.

“But ah thought kills me that I am not thought”

“2 People Searched for You”

“In the beginning was the …”

“re: Miss Exotic World” “I Want Us To Executed Transaction”

It’s not the thing, there is no thing, there’s no thing in itself, there’s nothing but what’s said about the thing, there are no things but words about the things said over and over, perching, grooming their wings, on the subject lines.

  • Seshadri, Vijay – 3 Sections: Poems

I’m sorry, but I’m not like that woman who loved those who loved whom she loved. The opposite, in fact.

The night is his who spends it coiled with you.

  • Seshadri, Vijay – 3 Sections: Poems

No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved. If I’d lived longer, I would have waited longer. Knowing you are faithless keeps me alive and hungry.

Knowing you faithful would kill me with joy.

Delicate are you, and your vows are delicate, too, so easily do they break.

  • Seshadri, Vijay – 3 Sections: Poems

He was chronically out of work, why we don’t know. She was the second born of a set of estranged identical twins. They met, hooked up, and moved in with her mother, who managed a motel on Skyline Drive. But always it was the other, the firstborn, the bad twin, the runaway, he imagined in the shadow of the “Vacancy” sign or watching through the window below the dripping eaves while they made love or slept.

The body is relaxed and at rest, the mind is relaxed in its nest, so the self that is and is not itself rises and leaves to peek over the horizon, where it sees all its psychokinetic possibilities resolving into shapely fictions.

She was brave, nurturing, kind. She was evil. She was out of her mind. She was a junkie trading sex for a fix, a chief executive, an aviatrix. She was an angel to the blinded and the lamed, the less-than-upright, the infra dig. And she was even a failure. She went to LA to make it big and crept back home injured and ashamed.

  • Seshadri, Vijay – 3 Sections: Poems