My wife had put on the colorless base
For a painting in burgundy, cutex
She calls it and that little brush
Paints little keratin canvases
With a single coat of color

She knows we will be at Hilton
In a couple of hours, partying with friends.
She had photographed and sent
Pictures of three evening dresses to all her friends
To get a parliamentary vote on the best dress
For the night. Her three other friends went
Shopping all over Colombo for the perfect gown
For a night of elegance.

And by 11.55 we will be drinking
From a tall glass and making our resolutions,
To make the lectures extra interesting
Make love a little drop from the exosphere
And not the stratosphere, although biology
Is unlikely to change her custom design
To accommodate the ammunition of heightened bliss
And of course make a little baby
If my biological nuke has extra radioactivity
And her parachute-less eggs
Will have many a great fall

And we will wait till midnight strikes
To make a little pact with our lips
A kiss that will see the year passed
Fall like a million raindrops
– And a little brilliant sun that shines bright – call it hope –
Washing off those stubborn times
When fate is leashed and enslaved
To synchronous affliction

And a new year, is always renewal
It is the butterfly from the cocoon
The flower from the bud
The dawn from the night
The diary from the countdown
And all you can do, is to let yourself go
To the many hued pledges of possibility

Lady luck and father time,
They say, when they consummate
You get a sculpture of baby fate, looking through
The crevices of her golden irises
Promising you bigger pickings
At least scraps of silver linings
Glistening through tall emerald blades
Of endless meadows of grass.


Che and Fidel

While they worship the mercenary
And the revolutionary in Santa Clara,
Where he lies, his eyes firmly pointed
At the city below, a monumental cultural icon
That defied the plague of inequality
And made the hunger for justice
A mission of love
And with him, a few hundred miles
Down the road lies, the undying legacy
Of a primordial nationalist,
One who rose from obscurity
Through study halls and class rooms
Of University of Havana, to become
The ultimate rebel and patron of the poor.
The man with the hunger of a lion
And the industry of a worker bee
Who made a sugar heartland, a homeland
Of equality and fraternity
And miles apart, one lies under the clear
Cuban sky, as a monument of love
And adoration, and the other, wisps
Thin in figure but resonates in myth and fact.
Two men who defied the rule of the thumb
And the invisible hand, to make this world
A little more equal in grassroots
Even if the grass was a paler shade of green.
And through revolution and love
They lingered until they were absentees
Two men who made love as much about
A decry of gluttony and greed
And waged a war for the least visible
The slum dogs of an island
In the greater Antilles.
And their journeys will be written forever,
Just like Hemmingway’s ink
In ineffaceable parchments that are scrolled
And concealed, in the dire depths
Of the human heart.



Through abundant butterflies
Flustering from the cavities within
I maneuvered my vessel to the safest of take offs
Still petrified of Murphy’s Law
And all the things that could crumble
Like a house of cards. Still I lingered
Like a cliff diver not knowing
The depth of the adjoining ocean, and as I took off
I realized love too was just nature’s scheme of events
A beautiful display of sequences that the body homes in on
Like an impatient butterfly to a flower
I found what infantries before me
Had venerated, even glorified.
The sky was brazenly beautiful
And I was a kite weaponized by the wind
The eakles were soon trembling in little quakes
Turbulence soon followed; yet throughout my journey
On foreign skies, I lingered in auto pilot
And there is nothing remotely
Strange when your body adjusts
To another and makes little excursions
Promenades from promontories
Auto-pilot was too surreal to embody,
Drifting to a carefree tonality, a cavalier in percussion
Until the sky came crashing to earth.
And there was no parachute
To hold me back.



The Christmas snowman inhales
Through a pointed vegetable, a carrot stick
That makes Pinocchio shy.
A vegetable that spirals downwards
Below the top soil, a tap root screwed
Into the ground with a little help from phytohormones.
History venerates of the house of Orange
A royal lineage that made a household stick
A little orange in color, although fact
Disputes such fairytales from the lowlands.
And this stocky starchy root
Makes little slender slices, Julienne,
And stews and soups a little fatter in color,
Even cake a barmy indulgence
Of an emboldening sweetness. And beyond
The costume of flaming amber, she holds
A reservoir of carotenes, little rings
And skeletons that fills little rods
Inside the retina, metamorphosing
Baby bats into acute eagles.
Daucus carota, royalty in orange,
Who descends from her lofty throne
To nourish the commoner’s lips. Carrots
Are not just to decorate obese snowmen,
They too are for night-blind children
Whose only wish in life, is to possess
Lucidity of the ogling eye, to make
Paintings of providence
Picture-postcards from God.

Beyond Beyonce


The glutton of the Gluteus trilogy
Was walking behind colorful butterfly wings
In symmetrical burlesque float
A little rustle that made the eyes poke out
And the tongue a little strung to gravity

And the ever-glued eyes tried to free themselves
From the perfect Gluteus maximus
The flutter of bronze trembling the heart
And troubling the radiant lust
Making sand castles out of fantasies
Triggering locomotion in the human heart

And through the perverted eye
He gazed at a larger than life screen
To watch nature’s generosity in full bloom
Burlap sand bags covered in washed out cotton
Moon petals in all their glory
Serenading a sonnet to the awaiting pupils

And the sonnet took center stage
In moon-struck delirium
To make a snippet of pornography
With the erect flesh in his eyes.

Ring Finger

Daniela & Frank's Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography
Daniela & Frank’s Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography

You find the ring finger
A little stockier, and impractical,
Nature’s unhelpful digit that makes
Locomotion a little half-hearted
Perhaps even outright lazy. And yet that
Idle stub that lazes to the busy-bodies
Surrounding her, is where
A centerpiece stands in all her glory.
A ring that falls two thirds of the way
And capsizes in her waist
Marking a milestone, when two
Natives of the land, partake a contract
To weatherproof emotions
With care and giving. A fat ugly stub
Of flesh, preserving a bond to eternity,
In embellished gold.

Death Bed


Deathbed can be a lonely place
Even with your family around you
Tearing one by one, while silent prayers
Levitate through little chimneys of the heart.
You feel the exasperation of knowing
The last bout of gas that passes through the air sacs
Might be the next or the one after
When your inhale sounds like sucking slush up a straw
As the windpipes wheeze in a little
Packet of oxygen, just to open the eye lids
Or to make the sides of the mouth
Form a little floatation, a smile,
And your exhale is a little moan of the upper throat
That expends a miserly supply of oxygen
Circulating through the pulmonary arteries.
Then you, the old man on the bed, will dream
Of angels descending from the heavens
To take you to a proverbial better place
Not knowing they are just pallbearers with wings, ferrying souls
To a courtroom, where your whole life
Will be replayed in slow motion
Till your soul is paroled
Hopefully to soar and not sink.