Jerusalem Artichoke (Helianthus)


Tanned yellow tiles,
The open face of a sun flower,
Pollen-clutched bees and butterflies,
Composite, compound soul,
That keeps vigil on the forefront
In an anthesis of a celestial sun,
That can swallow yellowcake,
Through her sieves and tongues,
And stands untouched through time,
Like an Elizabethan virgin,
Who smiles for the simple reason
She is not just an artichoke
Plucked at budding, before she emerges
As a flowerhead, just a Jerusalem artichoke,
Giving the tongue, a meager divinity of taste,
And the tummy, the torment of the wind,
And yet, perpetuates as persistently,
As Christian tradition.


Sunday Mornings

Sleep Sheets Bed Sex Feet Erotism In Love Toes
Lovers in Bed on a Sunday Morning

There are churches and then
There are cathedrals. Love is the latter.
That morning too, the wine glass was rich, silky and red
And the bread buttered like brioche
We sipped wine from each others glasses
And scavenged on each others dough
It was a beautiful routine on a Sunday morning
To be offered on an alter covered in a white sheet
A feeling that small habits billow into
Little miracles, like when candle light
Powers a sacrament of giving without condition,
Serving without sense or sensibility,
In to a tradition of interfacing the mortal with the divine
Until there is nothing left to transform
But the hysterical heaviness of breath
To the blissful lightness of parole.

Mary Magdalene

Mary Magdalene

The look in your face, worthy of me
And the others, scorn
Keeping vigil like a lioness.
You who took the stone out of their palms
And reminded each one, of the splinters
In their eyes.

And I searched for you
Around the skull mountain
And found an empty abandoned tomb
They said you had risen
And gone away.

And my lips still know no departure
My feet dance on yours in my dreams
My lips transgress like my night kissing your dawn
And my breasts are no longer
Like Sodom and Gomorra
Weighing of sin.

My heart will stand like Jericho
With the impenetrable walls around me
Guarding the memory of you
As I draw water from the Dead Sea, the banks
We knew so well, baffled at how a dead mass
Can be so life giving.
How the waves come back to wash my feet
Like you did that Passover day.

And I will wait, paying the penance of virtue
To be that woman who mourns louder and longer,
Than she has ever moaned.
Like a lighthouse that needs not
Summon any more ships to her feet.

And love, how can you forget love?
As red as the sea by its name
As dense as a bloom of Trichodesmium
And as carnal as the sharks that swim
Inside that narrow sea
And the boat that used to be here

Cutting through water
Spraying sea foam
Salting time.



I’m not a lent man. Asking me to fast
Or not pour down fizz drinks is asking too much.
Tea and beer though, both drinks on the fringes of bitter,
I would give up. So what makes us passionate
About some things, while we readily give up on others.
I don’t know, but let me tell me you a little thing or two.

Beer, malted barley
Flavored with hops, flowers which look from a distance
Like custard apples or giant seedless strawberries,
Doesn’t make my taste buds go into delirium
Or do a little dance on stage of the tongue.
So I would gladly give that up. And tea,
The aroma, the slightly bitter taste and the dryness
Makes me no fan of this Colonial beverage.
Aspartame-sweetened, caffeine-powered mountain dew
And coca cola though, do make me run to the supermarket
And buy a can or bottle. My sweet tooth, it seems,
Is mightier than my need for a cuppa or alcohol
And that’s is one luxury I cannot spare.

We give up for two things
To preserve ourselves, like
When we abstain from a dangerous practice
Or as a custom or ritual – when we follow
A cultural trend or a Kantian absolute
And that is how humans work. And the memory
Of Jesus alone in the dessert, tempted by the devil
Makes me shudder. Then I look at people
Giving up rituals in the name of religion
Food, beverages, or even sex and I think;
It’s truly amazing what 40 days in a calendar can do…

Lent is a journey from ashes to easter eggs
From mortality to divine life.
And only in the season sandwiched between the two
Does man torment himself with self-denial
And learns the art of what it is
To be unworthy of little pleasures.
Pleasures that become larger with time
When you feel a hand inside of you
Guiding you to the refrigerator
Or the nearest KFC.

And Lent will pass, the waistline will reduce
Diabetes will be delayed and a man
Will look at the duel between yearning
And surrender, and glow like the full moon,
Knowing self-denial is a path of self-discovery
How one finds springs of patience
You never thought you had. Sometimes
We find ourselves in lent. How undependent
We are on the customs of the flesh.

Still lent is a decision.
To do or not to do and it is upon man
To deprive his body or not. Not doing
Doesn’t make him any less a Christian.
Still if you do fast, do remember that
You’re not doing it for god or for Jesus
Or for some dire practice echoed in sermons
You’re only doing it for yourself
To find the bigger man inside of you.



He was a man of sandal
And staff. Befriending tax collectors and prostitutes.

He climbed the mountain
And prayed in the gardens of Jerusalem.

He was a man of simple needs
Water, bread and the daily catch of fish.

And yet the simplicity of his virtue
Still goes far and wide, like the screeching

Voice of a wren, and the nest he built
Still flourishes on the seven hills in Rome.

It is transcendent, that the echo of Jesus still haunts
The consciences caught in grunge of sin.

And it must be innerving to the devil, the snake,
How a dead man still laughs

From the vantage point on top of a cross
Of a skull cap hill.

Abrahamic Fogs

Ak 47

I floated like Aladdin
To see young men rape the beauty of Palymra
And desecrate the Buddha statues of Bamiyan
We are a plague, us humans, that do not
See another’s beauty, the tiger shark
That cannot see innocence – the tender shell
Of armor and the soft feet of a hatched turtle
Floating to the imperfect synchrony of wave formations.

We are all creatures of light
Whether we light a menorah at a temple
Or an Easter candle at church
Or illuminate a Ramadan lantern
On a day of celebration

Light is what makes a little baby open his eyes
Or a child chase fireflies at nightfall
Or little girls and boys look in amazement
At luminescent dinoflagellates brought by the tide

And when statues fall and history is razed
Empires don’t rise. It is just humanity
Drawing little chess boards and playing crusades
On them. And light to an open mind,
Is our only redemption, and enlightenment
Is when you lose your stitches and nails
And expand to the billowing forces from within.

And light is a little packet of quanta
That smothers antennas and transforms
Pigments to universality, as we lose our
Melanin garments and become a solitary mankind.
Skin makes our consciences like the Dead Sea
Where nothing seems to sink through.

And light is a prophesy of sorts
It makes people unconscious in front of a mirror
And deeply sentient everywhere else
And when that happens, we withdraw one foot
And extend one palm, as we make quantum leaps
In faith, which is all that is needed
To draw a blueprint of a perfect equilibrium.

Newspapers call it a cessation of hostilities.
Spin doctors issue press releases
Saying it’s a time of peace.

Fools in Faith


Faith is a conduit between two parties
And prayer the pidgin, the lingua franca.
It is the conjecture of fluke
Made more mathematically favorable
When laid bare by soul.

And prayer, is calling for a higher power
While badass is a cry to be the central attraction.
And the only difference between a pew in a church
And the ring of a circus is, while prayers are mocked
As anthems of schizophrenics that hear the voice of god
Clowns do handstands to rush
Some much-needed blood to the brain.

Reality says we are all made to look like fools in this world.
Disenchantment is the noose that makes
The foolish sane; And tighter the noose is,
Man will start to imitate others, follow de-facto rules
And rebel to be custodians of peer-acclaim
When it is popularity that is a brainwashed psychosis
That hears ovations inside brains.

And where as some see faith as folly
Others see it as emancipation. Faith is far from foolish.
It is the implicit clarity that far is nearer than one thinks
Or the weight is lighter than the scales point to

And all the while, the clown will make noises
In front of a hall filled with rebels, challenging
The mainstays of tradition; forgetting that tradition
Is a port of embarkation, an asphalt carpet to journeys
Concrete to civilizations and a most merciful love
To the orthodoxy of credence.

And that expanse that empties mental spaces
Is only a borrowing of prayer. And schizophrenics call faith
A lifestyle choice in immanent existentialism.