Fortune Cookie in Sri Lanka


Here in Sri Lanka
Every meal is served with a fortune cookie
When we lick off the leftover rice
Off our curry-gravied fingers and we serve
A scoop of curd and a draping of coconut treacle, as dessert
Knowing that your soul-mate and life-accomplice
Is the only fortune cookie
The heart aches for……..

When two creatures are
Intimacy-bonded as sticky-dough
As indulgingly sweet as brown sugar
As harmonious as Vanilla beans
In one pod and as thick as Ali-Baba
And the 40 thieves, when one word “sesame”
Opens a cave stacked with one treasure
And that in itself is one beautiful aphorism

That a verse printed on a piece of paper
And scribbled by signature
– Seemingly a coupon to love making –
Is as unyielding as Adamantine
Imperishable in clause and condition
And love they say is the co-valent chemistry
Between two lopsided creatures
Etched inside a palpitation chamber
And preserved in affection-bond
Where fortunes rise
From inside the dough of eternity.

Fable on King Coconuts


I took out a king-coconut
Which I had bought from a street-side vendor
A matured ripe orange nut
That I slashed with a carved knife,
When the water that was pressed inside
Beneath indomitable walls
Spurted out and some splashed
All over my yearning lips,
To teach me an empowering truth
I had forgotten with time.

How absolutely sweet
Freedom was…..



Men and women warm up their interiors
With a little coin to a ragamuffin
Or praying loud and hard next to a crucifix
Or sharing a facebook page of a lonely beggar child
Caught unaware to the camera.

Knowing freezing point is when
The engine of the conscience will have
Ice particles all over their nuts and bolts
And no amount of agony imbued in human flesh
Will make her dissect the many pieces
Of horror, to the muscle of human spit,
Or to fingerprints of intent
Or to the nonchalant eye that imprints
On rods and cones, the vagrancy of charity.
Oblivious, too fattened with greed.

When flesh turns to a whiter shade of pale
Taken over by a spiteful ogre, a leviathan,
Of the cold arctic seas, and winter
Turns herself to a hideous creature
That monopolizes everything in her path
With a condition, of the absence
Of sensory receptors to make a little heat,
To melt, to thaw, to lubricate the conscience
With a little fat or oil. We call it APATHY.

And like permafrost below the soil,
Killing the many forms of life around it,
Too deep, too fat and bulky, exceedingly frozen,
Too selfish ever to thaw to a watery stream
Of beautiful deed.

The Anti-Christ of Dorian Gray


There are people who play mind games
Like those who want me to give up on research
Knowing its the best thing about me
Forgetting for an eternity that my Ph.D. yielded 7 publications
Many of which were blossoms of my own buds
Ideas that challenged the foundation of science
And erected cathedrals of empirical truths
On their shoulders.

Mind games are the vehicles with the number plates
“GA” to convince you’re gay or “KV” Kitchie Victoria
The kiddish faced 29 year old I asked out
In the Philippines to insinuate, God knows what, mere blasphemous
Demerits. People are flawed. They are like the bent coconut branches
That God or general decency can never straighten
They are sun-seeking phototrophic plants
That look for light at all the wrong places
The sun that is too bright to make sense
Or the moon that is too cratered in its short history
To make the light a change of landscape
And we only become enlightened when the monk in the temple
Gives a sermon about merits or priest at the church
Talks about how the eldest child, the righteous one,
Is welcomed in heaven as much as the confessing
Prodigal son. People still forget enlightenment
As they go out in to the street, the light just as fluke
As the flickering lanterns of fire flies
Or a kerosene lamp with a short supply of kerosene.

And they will continue to play mind games
Men are vicious, they exude sins like the melting skin of a leper
They lie with a straight face even though
They know they are caught out with the very first word.
They make gods out of arm-chair warmers
The de-facto experts of sexuality, the idiots
That form opinions on how you talk to the genders
And make virginity into a pariah, when all that it is,
Is a beautiful wait of the unknown
To usher in a supernova, a cataclysm of
Your senses.

And man will continue to slander me
The man I am, the boy before me
And the old man down fate’s corridor
Knowing I stood up for what I believed in
Resisting fornication, idolizing virginity
Treasuring the first time, cherishing love
In all its inflorescence. And they made me
Into a mentally-ill schizophrenic, when I had no traces
Of delusions or hallucinations, just sensing reality
With my sixth sense.

And with time, I will be
The old man, poetry still flowing from the nib
And mind games gone with the declining ammo
In my penile tissues, when they will
Judge me still, on how fat I am or how ugly I am
Or how I achieved nothing in my life
– All that potential going to waste.
Yet knowing that they raised barriers
To all my potential, the dams that litter
Everything I do – research, poetry or any form
Of creativity. And one day,
I will be transcend this universe
As the anti-Christ to Dorian Gray
A man who with no sin in his backpack
Yet no worldly beauty to call his own
Lurking in the shadow of wrinkles
And silver strands, waiting for a silver lining
To take over, when I will dance
Till the macabre is in me, and I will cease
To be Dilantha; the last song, the last dance
The last step I will take on a slanted floor
Till the music stops; no more palpitation,
Just a lullaby for the kite to land
On the windless plains
Under a tombstone.

The Killing Fields


In the heart of Georgia
The fast foods chains fatten the black child
To a venomous infarction of heart capillaries
Knowing the black child who grows into a strapping young man
Has a few extra genes to not make
It across the Marsh creek to the Gettysburg field
Of precarious life.

And the ghosts of Lincoln
Hover from the top of basketball hoops
On a lonely court near the capital Washington
As a negro boy bounces a basketball
Off the square behind the ring
Hoping to escape the phantoms
Of his genetic make-up, the many fallen genes
That makes fat deposits inside arteries.

And in this tragic predisposition
It is the fast food chains that kill more black men
Than hood violence or rifled white men in uniform
And through the painted face of a clown
The black child will learn that
It is not the pantomimed skin that is the enemy
Only the obese burger that is served
By a lass in a striped garment
And as milky white teeth grip into a patty and bun
Little white plaques will form inside
The tributaries of an obese heart
Promising the oblivious black man
One for the road.



The Papal fairytale
From Boca Junior to Papacy
The supposed shepherd of the church
A street fighter of social justice
Rests as aloof of common man
As Nero was, with the fiddle in his hand
No chamber or secret room in the Vatican
Can ever relegate a chamber in the human heart
To the worthlessness of silence
The primeval voice of reason
Loggerheads of prelude with aftermath
War of merit against vice
An echo that has no founding percussion
Yet reverberates through the walls
Of an enclosed soul, to make man his own pope
Of a mighty cathedral of flesh.

You and I


You and I live in separate countries,
Separate sovereignties, you have different borders
To which I live by, your idea of religion
Is praying to God as loud as the Pharisees did
Using “God Bless You” to end every conversation you have
Doing Novenas every Wednesday, all show,
No substance. Whereas I live by Jesus’s life
The honorary deeds we call kindness
The dearth of tones, creed, ethnicities,
The Samaritan who condones my enemy
And the Levi who invites me for a meal.
And now we will die in separate lands
You with your riches, your success, your show-it-all
Lifestyle that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Whereas I have lived with the thorns of my stalk
The weights on my ankles, the weeds in my mind
And the love of a woman who cannot look me in the eye
And tell me “honey I’m lying to you every passing day”.
And we will not be grazing on the same afterlives
I’m not clairvoyant to tell you where you and I
Will levitate to, perhaps heaven is a fabrication
And so is hell, perhaps we only feed saprophytes
After we are dead and our souls are not
Sent on a carousal till nirvana is within reach.
Maybe we will die with memories of a Judas’s kiss
Or Brutus’s blade; while I don’t hang on to pain
I cannot apprehend the buoyant apathy all around
Of how a race can capsize me in my own
Loneliness, my own worthlessness to the human race
And I will someday pass on to a place
Only God will know and you too, will transcend
Your life, and we will be then be strangers
Unknowing of each other’s destiny.
We are feathers to different winds, carried
Far and wide, until we cease to be kin
And the shoulder we shared, and the kiss that betrayed
The shoulder, will haunt you and me
As we linger to our own colorful sunsets. And when my sun
Dips to the ocean, I will only look at how spectacular
My life was, a caged bird, a man with thorns
Sticking to his skin, a leper of humanity
Hanging on to his truth in a valley of lies
Knowing the truth of one’s past
Can always erase the lies of one’s present and future.
We all sing our own tunes, some exaggerated
Some in low octaves, and some while dancing
And I sang my tune from my incarceration,
The bars that held me back. And all I ask from god
Is to give me my honor, of the man who took the road
Less travelled, and made love his only earthly quest,
Yet love too swindled him. All he has now
Is a stubborn heart with the will to live.
The will to claim his legacy, of a man
Who looked directly to the storm of a million lies,
And rowed through the pupil
Of the only truth.