At TGIF

Sweet Potato

I’ve ordered
Some sweet potato chips
And a quarter chicken 
At TGIF, the fast food chain,
Waiting for a moment of madness,
Of gravity prone food,
That accumulates the pounds
Around my waste, and yet
I would rather be cumbersome
Than spending a life
Of window shopping,
And passing, on life’s little joys,
Like a little fry of sweet potato
That sweetens a minute at most.
And yet, aren’t we all
Hunter gatherers of little editions
That are sweet around the edge
And honeyed in soul,
To sate the insatiable,
The lengthy graft we call,
The pursuit of happiness.

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Bakery Poet

bread-food-healthy-breakfast

I began like an indiscreet crumpet
With holes in my poetry.
I’m no perfect poet, I’m just policing words,
Controlling their traffic,
With my baguette like limbs,
And all I want is, to be, just like a pancake,
Defined by an equation, approximating
To flaw-deficiency, and yet
I will only be good around the curves
On outer surfaces, mere perimeters.
I am culpable of being the bagel poet
With a huge hole in the middle
On which I pour chocolate sauce on
To make me as sweet as a donut and yet
I’m as dark as a pumpernickel, chiseling
A love poem which approximates to a ciabatta
And yet I’m just a loaf of fruit bread, with raisins
In it. My body, and my poetry, are tender for the commoner’s tongue,
The tit-bits of which I molest my ego with.
Some batter-fried vanity,
If I may, for some long-due love,
On the bathroom mirror.

Meeting JFK in Heaven

John_F._Kennedy_Inaugural_Ball,_20_January_1961

My mom makes French Fries
With an air fryer, her intentions,
Of keeping us healthy, curbing 
The LDL Cholesterol to a minimum.
So you wonder, why are we so scared
Of an angina and death. We are not
Shatterproof creatures, and death
Is when your heart shatters to minuscule
Pieces. Of course, there are the accidents
And the assassinations, when you have no
Control over your fate. You wonder, if JFK knew
Or was scared of what was to come,
And I guess, he being catholic, just as
I am, would have been coaxed into
Believing there is a heaven. Heaven to me
Is a place when everything is free,
And money, the origin of most sins,
Has no axiolological merit. Still I wonder if everything
Being free would make ideal creatures
Who live in the absence of sin,
As heaven is supposed to be. I imagine
Shaking JFK hand in heaven, perhaps
Even Old Teddy who did so much
For the environment, as you wonder if happiness
Is omnipresent in heaven. Perhaps we
Will be smiling all the time,
Yelping in glee, screaming exultations,
And helping each other, knowing
Here, creatures don’t age. So why am
I scared of the afterlife? Perhaps its because we
Don’t’ have proof of anything. Science
Is an empty cupboard there, with no
Ammunition to help the cause, when,
All the science websites are making
A killing on simplifying science
To lay man’s terms. I’m a man looking
Outside at the highest point in the sky
And wondering what is there beyond that.
Heaven; perhaps, or perhaps not. I will
Live out my life, a poet, a scientist,
Henley helping me on with the words of “Invictus”
And I say if I can’t be the captain
Of my soul, I’ll at least be a deck hand
Who makes the sail rise, for fate winds
To carry me, past the horizon,
Of my oblivion, to shake JFKs hand.

Pasta

pasta

Pasta comes in all shapes and sizes,
But spaghetti is always
A long stretch of flour, that unlike
A straw fails to keep the shape.
Penne makes diagonals, while Raviolli is stuffed.
And yet nothing beats the farfalle
The little butterflies that creep through the throat
To make a bout of hunger disappear.
Pasta is how my wife like’s her dinner,
And in this part of the world, where rice is royalty, you find
The rare pasta lover, who scoops
The pieces of flour, and my wife is one of them,
Who makes the fine art of fork
On a bowl of fettucine, a dripping exercise
At how a little fragment of starch can fill a little gap.
My wife tells me pasta is better than sex. Better
Than Game of Thrones or Harry Potter.
Better than the little grains of biryani rice
That fold inside your fingers. Pasta
Is what puts her in Rome, and when
In Rome, you become a Roman,
Worming into the vermicelli,
Your mouth like a filled compost bin,
While you are greeted at the other
End with a good load of packed starch,
When you become like the big bad wolf,
Huffing and puffing, to get
The spaghetti poop out.

The Gay Man’s Kite

Gay_flag.svg
.
Video killed the Radio star.
In that moment the cold war ended and so died
Innocence, at the hands of the video tape.
We were too young to realize
That each decade defines a genre
A style, a fashion, a craze, or even a bubble
That explodes with little warning
 
In 2017, while older styles
Are going out of fashion, newer
Styles are emerging, which like Denzel
Washington’s face is near symmetrical
And approximates love
In the same canon, as the institution of love
Classically is.
 
And the new style, is called queer
Has an abbreviation too – LGBTQ –
Which is innocuous enough,.
It doesn’t really bring down the house.
And yet, the church hushes the whisper
Of the pews, while a little rainbow
Flag flutters, so eloquently.
 
The wind scoops the kite
From below, and takes her horizontally
And upwards, until the kaleidoscopic kite
Is billowing to the curve of air,
Higher, steeper and mightier
Until the kite falls in a flash
And the wind steps down.
 
And you look at the naked sky
Only to realize how boring the horizon is.
When the queer kite is absent.
As I hope to god, the digital bubble
Will not kill the kite comet.
 
Dear Seamus (Heaney)………
Have you ever heard of the windfalls,
Of a kite, crashing against the wind?