Sometimes,

I sit and run my fingers along the brim of my coffee cup.

I move them in circles after circles,

Feeling the warmth of the steam on my skin.

I do it over and over again,

Until I forget why I started.

Sometimes,

I fall back

Into your arms

Even though I know,

You haven’t always caught me.

I do it over and over again,                                                    

Until I forget why I started.

A war, lasting over a month.

On going battle, one that would have me stumped.

a traitor, a man, a son of much treason

that war that did last for-a foolish reason .

a battle, carried on and still yet unwon

what a place to be caught in, what had he done?

betrayal of a man whom chose to switch sides.

his tactics were nothing more than his lies.


What a waste of man, wounded soldiers and all.

he tore through the bricks, ending the brawl.

it could have been halted, the ****** battle unfair.

could've been halted if only he cared.

I'm not a good writer,
Not one little bit.
My words don't rhyme,
My lines aren't chime.
I’m a bipolar,
And a ****-a-hoop too.
Sometimes, I talk a lot--
    literally, profane and sarcastically.
Sometimes, I keep my mouth shut,
Bring out a paper and a pen.
Draw and write,
Whatever it may be.
I'm not a good writer,
But I have a colorful life--
    colors of bliss,
    of love,
    of pain,
    of suffering,
    of blatant situations,
    of blasphemy.
That's all that matters,
And that I want to share with you.
I know,
I'm not much a poet,
But life, forces me to write.

I dreamed last night
of a battle field of frogs
much like opposing human soldiers
we have seen
in their violent play:
there was a general leading
his battalion to war
riding a bloated frog-soldier;
and the frogs used reed
to pound and beat their enemies;
and some used green shoots as rifles
and many a frog, I can assure you,
they did croak in the battlefield…


What does this dream
of the war of frogs presage
for us mice and rats in the city?
I have yet to ask the owl
that hoots nightly in the hollow
of the tree in the park
but my instinct tells me
there'll be a great human battle
and we'll have plenty to eat
for generations to come

I walked past and I heard
you play the sitar, Kadambari;
and I waited at the side in the streets
as I heard the soothing tunes and the notes
and the playfulness and the pleas and eloquence
and the pain and the joys and the ecstasy
O I heard the coming to of each note and raga
and I heard each improvisation
and I stood at the gate, hidden behind the green vines
not allowed in, always the outsider
always left outside, marked by clear boundaries;
but I heard each turn and each leap and fall
and I saw you in all your beauty, Kadambari
I saw you in my mind as I stood outside  
and I heard each note
as you offered each note to Kama, the Love God
Kama with his bow and arrow of flowers;
and the jasmine plants around me bloomed
and the trees in the street and the vines over the wall
they all bloomed, as you played, O Kadambari -
and so did my being, so did my being open like the sunflower
so it did, as you, O Kadambari,
as you had your fingers on your sitar
as you made music