Dim wit, or nitwit
Is a borderline insult and doormat,
Is just plain bulldozing and still, look at anything
Blonde, you get a feeling of
Being a perennial understatement.

“How many blondes to write a poem?”
One to put the thinking Viking hat on,
One to look at the northern lights,
And the midnight sun, looking for inspiration,
One to pitch Swedish words,
Sounding like English, and one to
To draw metaphors from arctic foxes,
Reindeer and lichens in the Tundra,
One to be a muse, like the little mermaid
In Copenhagen,

And finally, one dynamite blonde,
To define beauty, as the colorless, pallid
Tone that accompanies blue eyes,
Which becomes a poem on her own right,
A bombshell hiding a cluster bomb,
That like an open tinderbox,
Needs very little to kindle.




Who adds storyline to story,
Love to a numb-stricken protein universe,
Who sleeps with you, painting the canvases
Inside your ventricles, and can give
You an angina, any moment
She decides to rattle your world,
In disembarkment, when she morphs
Your body into a fluid, and in departure,
That godspeed-instant of goodbye,
That like a balloon popped by a needle
Bursts the bubble of all earthly bubbles.
When you’re just a non-soapy moment
In your own soap opera.


Cleavage 4

The unborn sin
Takes its cue from the apple tree
And extrapolates the fine art of revelation
To embryonic desire, in the beholder

Sometimes apples, those benefactors of lust
Are just an expression of womanhood
No riddles to solve, no invitations to grapple with
No confectionery to indulge in.

Only the implicit clarity,
That what the body sensualizes,
– Although a statement in eye candy -,
Is estranged from apple pickers.

Some apples simply belong to the tree


Cleavage 4


She cleans her face with soap
And an avocado facial wash
Wipes with a Kleenex tissue and applies
Some moisturizer. She embellishes
Her lips with a titian lipstick
Cheeks with skin-toned blush
And darkens her eye lashes
With mascara.


She will walk to her man
Waiting in the lobby of the Colombo Hilton.
With the flawless visage of Helen of Troy
The tender bosoms of Venus
The taut body of Hero
The naïve heart of Juliet
The overt beauty of Cleopatra
Taller than a heeled Geisha
Donning okobos on her feet


And lets one man disfigure,
Every fractional woman inside of her
Every endearment about her

With love.

A Virgin In Utah

woman 5

She cleans the table
And takes out the morning trash
And thus the day begins in Utah.
A woman 26 years, a virgin, pledged to Jesus
Who in this dire paranoid technosphere
Is just fighting for mere survival.

And she looks at the bananas on the table
While she thinks of the Poet Basho who
Named himself after the Banana plant.
Nothing shameful in having a sweet spot
For a banana, she thinks. Perhaps the geishas
Thought that way too.

And she will kneel down
In front of a statue of Jesus, the only man in her life
And say a prayer, asking for a husband
An honorable man who will let her
Wait for a while longer, maybe 6 months to a year
Before they take the plunge on the marriage bed.

And she goes to work in a bakery
Where she sells bagels, which she sometimes
Puts on a finger and baguettes that makes
Her go “ooh la la” and she looks at the Eiffel
Tower and wonder, what prince would take her there.

And the wait, is slow, grafting and lackluster
She is as bored as a Koala bear on a eucalyptus tree
Languishing behind the counter of her bakery
She has read the bible so many times and she finds it
Banal to read outdated fiction.

And she will look through the periscope of hope
To see prince charming gallop towards her
And they walking to the aisle as man and woman
A bunch of old tins tied to a car
Which they will drive somewhere over the horizon
They will make love in so many positions
Like rock formations in the badlands
And make that road to nowhere
A beautiful eternity.

And its not always big love here
One love is bigger. Its about the craziness
That the heart can gather in one being
When that epiphany called love
Opens a new book cover
And every page becomes your life story
To be written by the bright red ink
Of a giant squid sized heart.

Brown Girl


Brown paper packages come to mind here.
Like a Sri Lankan, 35 years,
Sold on a paper advertisement,
Traded by her parents.
Should I say brown paper packages
Tied up with string here?
Nah it rarely rains virgins here.

And it seems we are jinxed, our women
Are never love machines, SHHHH, that’s done
In secret in a bedroom in the dark
Just baby machines who when you stuff
Her with a heating rod, makes sugar babies
With caramel skin.

And still a brown woman
Is no brown paper package in string,
Nor is she the keeper of her ovaries,
Throwing curves balls every month.
Only a preservative of what is precious ,
The heart works that no paper can sell,
Only time can stamp.

And brown are the cinnamon quills
That you sprinkle on a cake
Or the brown sugar that always
Leaves an extra oomph factor on your tongue
And brown is the curry woman
Who will be traded by her parents

To flow like gravy on
A man’s coconut shell spoon.

Not Just a G String

G String

There are rounded monoliths that rise
To proclaim their own turf, as eyes pop out like springs
To wonder, what heaven am I in.
And strangely there is no string theory here.
Just Lady Godiva explaining the physics
Of the buoyancy of her buttocks.

And I wonder, how tight the flanking
Knots are, seemingly carless and carefree.
And strangely, the more you look, the more clarity
You see. The panorama of a little triangle
A trigonometry lesson, of little angles
Delicately margined, enclosing more
Than the eyes can scavenge.

And between I and her, there is only
A tangent, a line that touches a curve.
My path of sight drawing a line
To the surplus of Gluteus. And like an island in an ocean
She lies, in that strange fusion of romance
And eroticism. Of immodesty and intrigue.
As the eyes glean through the pupils
Abstracting a notion of parsimony
Of a little smidgen of fabric,
Barely there. A bantam wonder, that supersizes
The iris aperture, to the beautiful contrast
Of economy and surplus.

And there are no peeping toms here
Just grown men tuning their third eye
To an extrapolation of the sheer honesty
Of an anatomical wonderland
To figurative lust.