weekend of spices






nimmy joshi


"Never knew that. Happy. Thank you. How ares?”
And more mundane profanities of time.

Weekend of spices and stories from Bombay.
In the satchel of the old man.
The old man from the City of lLove.
With Sunshine ponytail and gores for tales.

Or moonshine ponytail maybe.

On the edge of the boulder, I sat, waiting for him to tip me over.
To the other side of sunset.
The naked blood-red side.

I have a seat, I say, with seatbelts.
"You have a seat, but I have a joint.”

I have a joint too, I think.
“You couldn't tell from my telltale swagger?” I ask instead.
I ask of the dark pair of shiny glasses.
Glasses smelling of cigarettes in the dark.

more by nimmy joshi

diary of an amnesiac

scalded cat

for bent

honey you!