Cold in my nose,
a hot November day,
up to ninety they say.
And the weekend’s
rain has increased
our chance of fire.
I drink chai,
knowing better.
Thinking of how I forget
how differently I see
the world from most
I have a solidly
Ayurvedic view,
and nothing to do
with it,
except to talk back
to the t.v.,
the way old men
It makes more sense
to me than the
sickness of television
I want to send
the perfectionist
an explanation
of Pitta,
a Kapha diet to
the overweight women,
though I’ve not been
able to make it work
for me.
It’s my failure
I know.
My whole life is,
I feel,
falling asleep
at night
changes I might make,
like counting sheep.
Just because I can’t
apply the truth
doesn’t mean I can’t
recognize it.
I forget most people
don’t accept reincarnation,
easy to see why,
the notion of doing
this again can sometimes
be downright appalling.