the
travel log, like all genres, is underdeveloped, encapsulated by its own
traditions which incarcerate the family members, straightjacket their
identities, and erect border walls between sensations, threatening the wildlife
of thought with extinction
for this
exercise – which we transiently call travel gypos or typos hypos – a juntetta
of sadoos gathered loosely in chār qala to envision recounting of adventures in
which the movements in exteriority and interiority are confused, as they always
truly are but here, in travel hypos typos, we take this truly are and make it not the under but outerwear of our explorings
our
primary orientation for this is the dial log, for all traveling is dial log and
all dial log traveling (they both are deconstructed forests) and one who knows how to converse well has already
crisscrossed the entire world
backpacking
on the jalalabad asmar road
the roads are dusty and
someone has ransacked our mandibles and our kindersurprises are strewn across
the transport and the backseat’s stains look like rorschach tests she says the khwaja karzai rawash hamid ashraf
airport is not busy but when is our flight to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh
radish lol?
i am higher than a wildfire hazard and cuming like kafir kush
but something not i manages to assemble a response from the smelly detrita
of my broken brain why isn’t anybody
looking for our departure time? we don’t want to miss this plane. the next one
to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol might not be for six hours
even tomorrow and where would we stay and what are our names?
but my fellow inhabitants are strung like xmas lights across a
tree of interiority and the blinking from their souls tucked behind the cloacal
curtain flies me to a worrisome refuge. she says our gillopy is the mantra of our salvation and our little plastic toys nazars
of exhausted tomorrows. only the foreknowledge of our departure is the unwrapped
gift stuck in consciousness’s unswept chimney
i rub some precum from a vat marked rodenticide on my lips as
an antinganting. we are sad for the
racing ducks in the little yellow pointy caps are not our friends but someone
must have the tickets and why is no one helping and i can see us in the choir
of the sun in manogay collecting firewood and crossing the border on staccato
backs of melancholic rains
the landscape, violently brown and mutely chronological,
looks at us as if we are toxic marshmallows taking selfies on a cosmic
refrangibility. the hills are marred with lipstick and no one sings the
wretched tunes
oh lollipops and chickenpox. we
shall never get to khwaja karzai rawash hamid ashraf and our plane shall leave
and shall arrive at lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol and the
ghats shall die without us, they shall fall like lesser adjutants, what shall
we do?
but i’m stockpiling dried scataberries on a ledge of flowers
for our defense against the night and she weeps a little like an anthrophobe or
an amygdala on the runs drinking polyvinylpyrrolidone. we were almost there and now we are forever on these broken destinations
and the planes are grazing like noxious buttercups and the airport talks to itself
in reuptake selective monotones and our flight to lal shastri babatpur bahadur
radesh radish lol is impatient like a siege
coming soon
more zeroes
more logs, more gyps & gypos
