“The Wide Road to Why Not To Teabag”
by Sam Ghosh
It was one of those nights where I drank too much, tea. My woman, with tears in her eyes, seeing mine red and the Lipton on my breath, said I did it again. I lied. She put her hands in my pockets almost seductively, kissing my forehead. Her lips were still wet with tears. I closed my eyes; her lips were there for an unnaturally long time, about fifteen minutes. I found a teabag held to forehead in place of her lips. I know you drank too much teach, at least owe up to it, she yelled, you start writing scary things when you drink too much tea. Next thing I remember, I was on the curb with only a teacup in my hands. The crosswalk light went from Don’t Walk to Walk. It was an omen. I had a journey to take before I could have my woman back.
Red, green and yellow
Vistas of shoelaces and hubcaps
Ivory crosswalks
I journeyed from that crosswalk, across the steppes of Brooklyn, across a rivulet of the river Styx, the Hudson, into the steel valleys of Manhattan. I found myself at the Temple of Peter Stuyvesant, small bricks hidden in the steel city. I took the trials and climbed to tenth floor, using guile, strength, agility, and a Student ID card.
Brush strokes, architects rules
Words wafting sweet smoke in and out
In English and Chinese
I met a fellow poet up in these caverns. He looked lost but alive and I guessed his name was Miles. I pulled out my writing brush and exclaimed would Miles cross brushes with me a write a renga.
Bold = Sam
Regular = Miles
Whirlpools of summer
The heat of reality TV
Survivors naked
The click of the remote
and a new show is born
On the screen, a warthog
Somehow in a suit, he speaks
“You’re Fired”
Big Brother orgies in bathtubs
Telethons and lights of Idols
Desert islands lost
The sunset turns and rises
Miles is voted off
I told him he was voted off this renga. His head was low as he mumbled something about how come Sam was allowed to be the tribe. I felt I had learned the first lessons. I must be able to remove the negative parts of my life as easily I removed Miles from the renga.
I met a sage. She said I must travel down to the seventh floor. It was covered in moss and viscous plant life, such a tulips. The evil gardener down there knew I hated tulips, because of their association with corny second grade jokes. I found his lair, where he was putting his hostages to sleep! I exclaimed:
A honey-like escape
Sleep amongst leaves and desks
Bring machetes!
Everyone rose and the gardener ran. He seemed to just be misunderstood. They cheered for me as their savior. Though two would not come forward, they were dignified, like me. I knew they were poets. One of them looked like Nedal and the other like a Maggie. I exclaimed would Maggie and Nedal compose a renga with me!
Bold = Sam
Regular = Nadal
Italics = Maggie
Stealing Spring Sunlight
Through winter clouds and barren trees
Dreaming in Biology
A universe hidden beneath a thin
Lager of white chalk, empty desperation
Unbearably warm
Molecular formulas
Sam falls fast asleep
Dreaming in tie dye equations
And scantily clad science ladies
Lightheaded buzz
A blood pool, a bulge
Images flash across the slate
The meaning of life lost in Figure 5-2
Textbooks collect rivulets of drool
There I learned the second lesson. I must be able to be efficient in my life, even while I am asleep, I must write beautiful poetry. The gods and my woman will only smile upon when I can be the most efficient.
The evil gardener came out to speak with me. Apparently he was not evil, just under an ancient spell, which my words broke. He was wise and old and told me that to get my woman back I must learn the ancient science of Women’s Voices. He told me not to believe the legends that Amazonian warriors that ripped men to shreds guarded the art. I wasn’t sure, but in order to get my woman back, I needed to learn this skill, this science.
Among escalators
I lose my self’s backpack
Standing still
I find the keeper of the secrets on the trial grounds on the 9th floor. I was surprised to find men amongst their ranks. I exclaimed where is the keeper of the knowledge. She was not there. I fell to my knees with tears in my eyes. How can I go back home unless I had the knowledge! Those who I perceived to be Polina, Jamal, and Michi came and gave me a pat on the back. The ultimate remedy for the soul is a renga. My soul was a bit more hurt than usual so we wrote two:
Bold = Sam
Italics = Michi
Regular = Jamal
Underline = Polina
Edges in the field
Gilded in sunlight and snow
The dog yapping
The cold chills me to the bone
My mother is calling me
Her image looms large
In the doorway of the room
Where the warmth lones from
Is that her at the loom?
Or is it an approximation?
The smell of coffee
Wafts seductively to me
I want to drink some
Get the guns, bulletproof vests and rations
We gon’ take ova Starbucks y’all
But Starbucks isn’t worth it
I want the whole world at my feet
Gimme my mochaccino
The pretty barrista winks
I will smile and wink back
Her body winds
With the mechanics of a zephyr
White chill on the glass
I walk outside, coffee in hand
Steam from the coffee mingles with the clouds
I take a deep breath
The smell of fresh grass and soot
Immortality
A moments quiet ceases.
A shaft of sunlight
Diffuses through the treetops
Scattering brilliance
Snowflakes are lazy on branches
Snowmen walking into the ground
Snowmen have no feet
When I try to add feet to snowmen
They collapse into their parts
I pick up the dirty carrot
Brush it off and take a bite
Add an extra branch
And I have made a mutant
With three spindly arms
Someone takes the bottle nose I gave it
Moves it to the crotch. What unnatural limbs
Bestiality
Unnatural attraction of beaks and lips
Dogs bark, cats meow
If you do it with a goat
Your kids will have horns
What is more brilliant?
Goat boy is here to please you
A ‘maa’ reverberates
Mountain Billy goat prances proudly
Lead me up to the mountaintop.
Boulder’s are trolls
Sleeping in midnight caverns
Till the sun rises
That when a lesson came unto me once again. Like the snowman I must not be afraid to be molded by others. If my woman wants to change me, I should let her. She had my best interests at heart. So off I went.
Returning home alone
Is difficult as pushing the sun
Below the horizon
She slapped me when I returned home. She slapped me with the force of the Northeaster Wind God, Northeaster, or who I affectionately call Bob. She made me throw out all the teabags and do a hundred pushups. I asked what the pushups were for; she giggled and said there was no reason. I was not angry, for if I were angry with her now she would leave me. She was my weakness. The bedroom was a marble amphitheater, with wooden floors touching destiny. They glazed with the neon blue of two people in understanding.
“Maya, because of you I have traveled the Wide Road of Why Not To Teabag… Thank you, my love”
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