And so. I have no quill, no ruffled sleeves, no plunging bodice. My hair unwashed and wind-torn, a silver keyboard, half-finished drawings of teeth bared and eyes heavy-lidded. Cheap beer and jasmine rice, bladder straining, somewhere a muttering. Spine compacted, sitting overlong gazing at bitmapped palimpsests. Last year's shoes planted flat to the floor, the ones I left outside of temple thresholds in Thiruvannaamalai.
I want to enunciate each portion of my life, as stammered avowals. I want to trill them all together, as an Indian would, replete with sideways headbobble and twinkle in the eye. Absurdly poised I recount Whitman, of contradictions and multitudes.