I am at one
with all living creatures
Exactly as much as a blade divides flesh
My existence is the width of the wound
You’d use a scrap of masking tape
be done with it in three days
this is my book
– mtk, San Francisco, August 10
10 Sunday Aug 2025
02 Wednesday Apr 2025
Posted in 2025, beliefs, Commentary, philosophy, poetry, religio
Tags
beliefs, Christianity, commentary, deep, geologic, hindu, islam, Judaism, Karthik, monotheism, mtk, poem, poetry, proem, religion, time
Human history lies in the shallows.
We walk out deeper because of our powerful ability to imagine, we wander into prehistory at our knees.
The strata of the eras ribbon up our torso through geologic time.
Neck-deep time.
Our head above the watery eons only because we cannot hold our breath for long and yet,
we plunge through space and time with automatons and can project the data into comprehension as never before.
I am so disappointed in the world’s religions who deny our expanding comprehension.
they are farcically wrong.
tolerance of their incorrectness
an ever-expanding river of bullshit
has led to racist factionalism that stands in the way of science and humanism.
I glance back at them all squabbling in the shallows like babies,
calling each other names and threatening wars
oblivious to the depths revealed by our observations
our science.
I do not long to explain the spiritual or wondrous inexplicable.
I only long for all the bullshit else to end, so we can continue to evolve into something beautiful, calm and sane.
And not to stampede down an apocalypse invented by false prophets leading religions for personal gain.
The Buddha implied as much 2568 years ago.
Love,
mtk
29 Sunday Dec 2024
18 Sunday Aug 2024
Posted in 2024, Commentary, philosophy, poetry
I am unlike everyone else on this planet because I have done nothing but travel, read, think and party. I have avoided jobs, family and friends because they all demanded I compromise myself. but I read Emerson at 14:
“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.“
So I have been myself for at least 43 years and it has cost a lot of relationships. I won’t play along with things I don’t agree with.
I don’t blame all of you for buying in. I blame some of you for selling out. But the thing I resent is that since you bought in or sold out you decided to apply condescending judgements against me as an outsider to what you chose to be a part of.
You married assholes all expect me to revere married life as some higher place. You people with families have a LOUD, UNIVERSAL CLAMOR about the virtues of family. Families are mostly fucked collections of bullshit responsibilities to people who share some DNA.
Your recriminations and requests for me to “grow up” or to join your so-called society are an offensive affront. Your societies are horseshit. You are filled with lies disguised as social truths.
You are so deluded now that you wouldn’t know a truth if it came up and bit you on the nose.
You think Oswald killed Kennedy. You think those towers fell down by themselves. You think democracy exists and capitalism hasn’t OWNED it for decades. You think you have free will.
You believe in gods out of fear of looking at the truth.
There is no God. There is no anthropomorphic he or she to praise or punish we.
You are so profoundly manipulated by your compromises that to speak to you about truths is impossible because – and this I just can’t believe – you will deny it, call me crazy and cover your ears.
You maintain the falsity out of fear of looking at the truth and being responsible for it.
The only sad thing is the lack of shame you have for all this.
I may be totally alone. But I know the truth and I fear nothing. Sucks ta be you.
30 Friday Dec 2022
It’s near midnight here
soon to be the last day of the year
I’m killing time
my only perpetration of murder
unless you count the smashed roaches and other bugs
that my Dad and the Jains count
but I don’t
they sweep the ground in front of themselves
to avoid stepping on ants
Dad would say a prayer for bugs that hit his windshield
as he gripped the wheel two-handed on our doomed summer vacations
fools
accidents happen
they always will
and maybe
to you
tomorrow
and you won’t experience
one second
of the new year
or any of the ten
in the countdown to it
and when they sing
Auld Lang Syne
it’s you
they’ll be thinking of
murderer
– M.T. Karthik, Pondicherry, 12/30/2022
24 Monday Oct 2022
Posted in beliefs, Commentary, conceptual art, performance, poetry, politics
Tags
#mtkforever, 2019, history, Karthik, m.t., m.t. karthik, mtk, parallel
26 Friday May 2017
Posted in maturation, midlife, poetry, thoughts
nothing it’s never nothing how long ago’d that start?
I love you and the way we dared
nobody I mean nobody wanted us to
and when the baby came
about then
since then
it’s never nothing
but maybe earlier than that even
when I came to you that December and said it
straight eyes open to your face
let’s have the baby now
by then for sure
that summer when you loaded up the Ryder
with S. and left
it wasn’t nothing
so at least that long ago to me
it wasn’t til recently
like ten years ago
I accepted it was
for you
for me it hasn’t been nothing
in a long time
maybe it will never be nothing again
everyone should have nothing
at least for a little while
before we die
02 Monday Nov 2015
I have lost my way
It lies somewhere behind me
but none of us can go back again
Will I find my way once more or
will time run out?
I ask, paused
astride the path
watching the maddened crowd.
Run to the current
rate of flow
plunge
into seething humanity
28 Saturday Apr 2012
Posted in jazz, poetry, social media
Tags
artist, author, bread, coin, coined, composer, genius, hip, hipster, Lester, money, Pres, Prez, repeater pencil, saxophonist, Young
The great musician and composer Lester Young
(nicknamed Prez by Billie Holiday)
who lived a lush life and died at 49, too his-last-name
was one of the hippest human beings of the 20th century.
Prez was smooth of tone and tongue,
and coined the use of the word ‘bread’ for money
and the phrase “repeater pencil”
to describe the act of repeating one’s own past ideas.
I’ve been a repeater pencil for weeks now as I fill these social media with back-dated content.
Prez always said he didn’t want to be a repeater pencil.
24 Tuesday Apr 2012
Posted in poetry
Tags
To those about to light a toothpick,
the reverse end of an incense stick or
deliberating whether to forcibly divorce
a pair of chopsticks,
by lighting one on the gas stove,
in order to light a smoke
because you’ve no matches or lighter …
I salute you.
mtk 2012 Oakland
11 Sunday Nov 2007
Tags
answer, bear, china, crow, India, Iran, islam, Karthik, m.t., mtk, not, poem, problem, Russia, stone, tree, turkken, war, yemen
Iran is a Stone
Iran is a Stone
China is a Tree
India, a Crow
Russia, Bear
From Turkmen to Yemen
the sands are shifting
Sudamérica demuestra la dirección
Africa waits
Islam is not the problem
War is not the answer
23 Friday Mar 2007
Posted in Asia, India, poetry, Tamil Coast
If you keep making lefts
You go in a circle
If you keep making rights
you wind up where you began
If you just go straight ahead
you’ll wind up where your headed
but going straight ahead’s the fastest way to dead.
MTK, Pudducherri, Tamil Nadu, India March 23, 2007
24 Friday Nov 2006
Posted in India, poetry, Tamil Coast
they’ve littered
super-bright,
glowing, glass
franchises
all over the cities
(my precious corners)
and now towns of this planet.
can hardly see the stars anymore
-mtk November 2006
24 Monday Oct 2005
Posted in artists books, collage, Los Angeles, NYC, poetry, politics
Tags
2005, acrylic, artists, book, Borsa, bound, dereliction, gouache, Karthik, large, m.t. karthik, maps, mtk, paint, salvaged, size, Wilde
dereliction [2005]
13.5 x 21 in
an original poem by M.T. Karthik on seafarer’s maps salvaged by G. Borsa from a derelict tugboat on the Newtown Creek that separates the boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn, NY; with gouache, acrylic, ink, and collage of printed paper, printed plastic and color prints from digital media by M.T. Karthik; bound by C.K. Wilde
Initially authored during the Republican National Convention as it was taking place in New York City, “dereliction” [2004] begins with a slap across the face of the Prince of Wales in 2001. A reprint of the BBC World Service Internet screenshot features 19-year-old Alina striking Charles with a rose in Riga, Latvia, and is collaged into a map of the seagoing entrance to the Gulf of Riga in the Baltic. Accompanying text reports that Alina was protesting the then recently begun bombing of Afghanistan by the United States and the United Kingdom. This is the only spread in the book which maps an actual place.
An invocation:
“O, Chorus of unknown seas, drowning the known to smithereens”
leads the viewer from the map and image of an actual place into a fantasy cartography.
As an organizing principle each folio is designed such that no spread has paper from the same original map in its recto and verso facia. To achieve this, the maps were spread out, cut into quarters and recomposed, designed primarily with an aesthetic created from the juxtaposition of land masses and water. The land and water were then treated with media to create text that serves to obfuscate specificity further, but also to unify bodies of water and masses of land.
Each spread (including the title page and frontispiece) is composed from deconstructed maps positioned to create shorelines and seaways with no basis in earthly reality. The result is a deconstruction of the original maps that creates an atlas of a world familiar yet not accurately descriptive of any known place. The title page is companioned with a frontispiece detailing the title, as the first sets of waves of text appear in the sea: “the ship of state is derelict”.
Figures rigid in concept, but loose and flexible in media, create a striking paradox, as patterns of zeroes and ones are painted in gouache across the land masses – a reminder of digital output and a haunting count.
Swiftly, the context leaps back in time to the era of the Atomic Bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, as a play on words is employed in the repeating waves of text in the sea: Truman as the “worst president,” the decision to use the bomb as the “worst precedent”. [Curatorial note: there are momentary and unique changes in the underlying text in each spread. In this case, buried in the text are two additions: “the buck stops here” and “worst Missouri Mob” … meant to implicate unseen hands behind the Truman presidency.]
A spread follows featuring the English transliteration of the name of Hiroshima copied 1,000 times and of Nagasaki 750 times and leads to the A-bomb spread: the spread with the most text in the book, in all five layers, including the Sanskrit transliteration of Chapter 11, Verse 32, from the Bhagavad Gita, quoted by Oppenheimer upon seeing the cloud from the first successful test of his atomic bomb.
From the A-Bomb spread, “dereliction” [2005] continues to accuse the founders of the U.S. of genocide and the current leaders of the United States of militarization for centuries. A parallel is made between the figure cited by Bartholomew de las Casas as killed by Columbus’ ventures and a figure representing those killed by the USA abroad in covert and overt operations between 1945 and 2001 and digital photos of pre-columbian sculptures from Oaxaca, Mexico float in the seas.
The centerfold of “dereliction” [2005] employs a quote from James Joyce’s “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” to make a point about the rush to war in Iraq. In the novel, Joyce describes his class being asked by his teacher, to copy the phrase “zeal without prudence is like a ship adrift,” repeatedly. At the place marked in the maps as “Middleground” this quote is written over and over as instructed, and creates the central thesis of the text: that the USA is adrift, waging bungled wars led by men who don’t know even simple philosophical truths.
The text then moves to an admonition of those adrift without such knowledge:
“Oh, woe betide ye, adrift at sea, without even a cosmology”
and concludes by offering a cosmology in the form of a Haiku [5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables]:
a cosmology :
sun father mother ocean
the moon is a god
23 Tuesday Sep 2003
Posted in Los Angeles, NYC, poetry
25 Saturday May 2002
Posted in artists books, collage, jazz, journalism, Los Angeles, poetry, travel
25 Thursday Apr 2002
Posted in Los Angeles, poetry
Love a pine tree intensely,
expecting nothing
and perhaps it will, in its immensity,
rebroadcast that love
like an antenna
scattering your emotion
down the umbrella of branches and tiny needles
that fall from above
to prick the soles of pilgrim’s feet
in accurate punctures,
coursing by vein at the heel
up into the minds of tree lovers
who seek nothing in the trunk
save the root
and to die in peace
MTK, Los Angeles, 4/25/2002
10 Thursday Jun 1999
Tags
1999, 99, brooklyn, from, is, Karthik, m.t. karthik, mtk, new, new york, of, summer, the, to, unity, world, york
From New York to the World
’99 is the summer of Unity
Indian time is measured by the moon
but this is a lyric for the month of June
“I like New York in June, how about you ?”
july and august maybe into september
if we make it last we’ll have something to remember
this is the evolution of the revolution
known as urban contribution
we’re rubbing out the borders and the edges of the thing
so we can get together and sing
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
there ain’t no such thing as the 21st century
there’s only right now that includes everybody
from Tokyo to Paris, Frisco to Mali
we all know who the greatest is … it’s ali.
we can talk about you and all about me
but what it comes down to is we
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
niggahs on the left side crackers on the right
everybody who knows better can separate the fight
by jumping in the middle and shouting out the chorus
but you got to shake your ass or you know you’re gonna bore us
everybody’s looking for the next big thing
Y2K ain’t shit yet, so just sing
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
Saramago’s written a book
in which we all get blindness
while the dalai lama says
his true religion is kindness
I don’t know what the answers are but you might be forgiven
if you put away your bigotry and listen to the women!
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
nobody knows where we’re going
nobody can say about the weather
but wherever we’re all headed
we’re in it together.
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
99 is the summer of unity
from new york to the world
M.T. Karthik, Brooklyn, 1999
13 Friday Feb 1998
21 Wednesday Jan 1998
I’m shivering –
can’t hold myself tightly enough and there’s no one else to hold me.
It’s cold.
It snowed last night on the spring equinox.
It only snowed once in New York this past winter –
that day, three full moons back, when I returned from Boston
to spend my first night in Brooklyn.
It fell in drifting, tiny, crisp, wispy flakes
that melted when they struck the concrete
and the earth of the city
mean
while it was snowing
in drifts up and down the east coast
shutting down whole swaths of automated New England
killing electricity for thousands
killing several who were inadequately housed.
My first night in Brooklyn was cold.
I fashioned a bed from a piece of sheetrock laid across cement cinderblocks,
and covered it in some of my warmest clothes.
My overcoat was a blanket.
I lit some candles.
there was no heat, no bath, and no electricity.
there was a toilet and a sink that gave no warm water
and I watched it snow and considered the english language
There is no snow where I am from.
Never.
There, it is either wet or dry and usually it is too hot to be outside for long.
Now, I have traveled far from where I am from
and have seen many things and kinds of things.
I have, along the way, learned new words.
I have heard english-speaking people say, in amazement:
“the Inuit have more than 30 words for snow.”
and that day in Brooklyn I wondered how
english could have snow for millennia
and yet have only one word
for the many different kinds of falling white
I’ve seen –
the cold, browzy, white haze at great heights
the soft, gentle quiet of an empty field
tiny flakes and slippery ice
hard rains of sleeting shards.
english has been arrogant.
It just feathered that day.
It was just a little feathering down.
a feathering of
13 Tuesday Jan 1998
Posted in poetry
Yo baubles here’s one from the top of the telephone
Talking coast to coast – me at work in Manhattan
you in Berzerkely at yo mama’s home
You said:
“She’s a creative director … (so she says).
so I’m supposed to understand
she’s a fashion director for a magazine
“I say two words-and she says ‘SF Moda?’
And I start to say, “No, I didn’t say –”
(that’s not what I said)
“And she says, “Why yes, I do work for SF Moda … You’re a DJ? I know you from somewhere …”
“Turns out she was “winnie d’s roommate”
“but I never been to winnie’s house … dummy-”
Then baubles, you told me ‘bout how she was
And said she was and how she wasn’t and said she was and how she said and said and said
But then you set it straight with that big brown shuffle of yours.
‘cause from the tail end of that call I can still hear you sayin’:
“baby, we don’t need to talk … in fact, it’s best that you don’t –
I can give you a lyric sheet and we can make some beautiful music together.”
(phone convo with DJ Consuelo), mtk, nyc, 1998
19 Sunday Oct 1997
Posted in poetry
17 Friday Jan 1997
Posted in Coastal Cali, poetry, S.F.
January 17th, 1997ce 3:45 pm
Ocean Beach, San Francisco, California
At two o’clock p.m. on 17th January, 1997ce, I ended an experiment in documentation, exactly two years and two days from the experiment’s beginning.
I put an end to two years of work during which I spent the vast majority of my time – averaging five to seven hours a day – doing nothing but writing. The conclusion of the experiment occurred as a result of the act of putting the only existing copy of the novel I had written over the two year period into a black cardboard box and delivering it to Chronicle Books, a publisher of some size in San Francisco, at exactly two o’clock on that sunny Friday.
Then I went to the beach.
I consider the experiment in chronicling and documentation to have ended at that time. I do not intend to revisit or change one word of the texts of the resulting documents which include the novel, many stories, poetry and a number of other notations and entries.
The following is the first entry in my journal which I wrote on Ocean Beach after ending the experiment:
You are a novelist and you have just ended your first novel. The process in which you participate has borne a fruit. And now, it is time to take the fruits of your labor to market.
What will the market bear?
How does your fruit compare.
to other fruits available.
Is it sweet? Is it bitter?
Does it slake the thirst?
Does it feel cold and delicious
going down like a plum?
Is it dry and grounding, requiring
delicate effort like a banana?
or more delicate still
unseeding a pomegranate
What is the going rate for
fresh, ripe, delicious fruits
on the market which compare
to yours
Shall you ask more or less?
This is your position and
you feel you may be definitive
and yet you are afraid because
you have never sown & harvested
these seeds (brought them
to ripen) before.
Your fruit sits next to you
like a prize tomato and
just picked, plucked, fallen
and all you can think of is
how to better farm the seeds next time.
How to hoe the rows.
How to plant the seeds.
When?
And you realize there is no time. You are beat. The last harvest cost you everything and you are tired and hopeful for success @ the marketplace and you do not know what to do except to try to maybe relax … and take a break.
But even resting is duro … hard … difficult
This is an alone time. And you notice your surroundings. Sounds are amplified. The women talking at the table next to yours, the ocean, birds, music, poetry, … ART
painting
ALL MADE
BIG!
31 Tuesday Dec 1996
10 Tuesday Dec 1996
27 Wednesday Nov 1996
10 Sunday Nov 1996
01 Friday Nov 1996
I’ve come
many times
mindlessly
in the fall
when autumn has fallen
into its “n”
and october
breathed its last “errrrr”
into the lush warmth
of my woman’s insides
and it often
arrives
with
a rusty leaf
a golden crispy crackle of yellowing green
that burns well in winterous weather
in my minds stoven pipes
coming into the world
melancholic
as
november
31 Thursday Oct 1996
The story telling is the important part
The story is the being is the telling. The telling is the being is the story. The story is the telling is the being. The being is the story is the telling. The telling is the story is the being …
the being is the telling is the story.
Not The End.
mtk, SF, 1996
23 Wednesday Oct 1996
imagine if I were to collect every single word I wrote and saved over the last fifteen years and bound them into one very fat, long book.
I have dozens of stories, poems, journal entries, drawings, notations, thoughts,
words.
Suppose I were to collect all of this and then Bind it.
I could see an ordering using language (words are lies)
of my life.
of my lie(f).