Moments that have changed me
Played me
Over and over
Trying to sedate me

I know who I am
That isn't a maybe
People find it hard
They want to tear me apart
To take my heart
To ruin,
my art

You've changed
A voice to me that always complained
People who put me on display
To portray
Want me to obey
A role-model ready to play
Maybe I should just,
let them take me,
a buffet

My momma hates fruit
She always said
She’d never take a bite
She’d rather be dead

But since she had medicine
A serotonin pill,
She said she likes the berries
That she always had and will

As secretly as the weeps
of final rain drips.
in my black work socks,
to hungry micro-wave
and I do feel  lucky,
chosen upon flocks
for skin I so crave
and I'm forever formed,
memory's not wasted,
down in kitchen seas
Midnight cravings,
for her Lasagna
and home-grown pizza,
3 am growl cravings.
She knew the way,
to my instant heart.
And loved her for it,
days & appetite
Love roundelay.

शब्दांना फोडणी लाऊनी
बनते आयुष्याचं भोजन,
भावनांच्या मसाल्याला
टाकायचं त्यात प्रयोजन.

कधी रागाचा लाल खरडा,
तर कधी आनंदाची खीर,
थोडं मजेदार आंबट लोणचं,
त्यात रुसलेल्या रसगुल्याची भिरभिर.

एक कौतुकाचा लाडू, अन
थोडी लहरी असलेली कोशिंबीर,
त्यात समाधानाच्या भातावर
आमटी बसलेली गंभीर.

भावनांच्या या जेवणाने
भरतं ताट आयुष्याचं,
पण सर्व पदार्थ खाण्याआधी
प्यावं पाणी प्रेमाचं.

guilt and shame
eating to blame
lack of control
lack of tame
the food comes in
the fat puffs out
if only cold turkey
didn’t sound so good right now

Back to the earth
everything organic
yet another course correction

ınk a new line that drips upon a page;
poetry plays a point that letters spell.
when feet are running meter's rhyme and rage
the poet writes of love that's worth the tell.
a statement made of stanzas rings a bell
in ears that crave the rhythm of a verse
rehears'd in dulcet tones that maybe yell
at times when feeling love is but a curse.
volta Velveeta cheese an early hearse
and bathroom book of verses by anon.
musical fruits smell better smelling worse:
if music be the food of loveplay on.
     in octaves, sevenths, sixths, fifths, fourths, and thirds,
     poesy *****-footing plays with words.

They came.
I served their food raw.
One called the smoke “avant-garde.”
Another mistook the fire for wine.

I told my recipe to the onions,
And they cried for me.
My assistant bled her heart out into the batter.
We called it dedication.

They clapped at the concept
  But spat out the taste.
      “Where’s the soul?”
    They asked,
  As I retched mine onto their plate.

I plated everything. I garnished everything.
I sous-vided my own nerves.

The critics asked me:
  “Is this performance or punishment?”
And I said:
  “Yes.”

They begged for dessert.
I gave them a mirror.

No one was full.

One choked.
  One clapped.
    One asked if it was locally sourced.

And just before the flames kissed the napkins goodbye,
Just before the foam turned to ash,
  I leaned in
  And whispered:

“It was halibut, you donkey.”