Hyperboles are iced cakes in virtual markets. 
Well-manicured monopoly
     only hate in finger nails...no blood trails
     only the lust for omnipresence in a wart-sized world.
Sell what sells best
     names look good in bold italics.
     You know the worth of your name.
     Here your fingers burn a night lamp
     and there a door opens to the wolves. 
You have nothing to lose
     you never belonged to any of these rooms.
     But when you have to answer that eye
     locked in fear to the rosewood door 
     look away...walk away.
What free tongue 
     that can’t simply liberate itself from its own dark alleys
     that has no vision beyond its own leaning.
Leeways of an eclipsed moon
     growls of the sorry moorland
     strands of silk lost in the ruffian bronze.

You must know
     the house you live in is not yours alone.
     How many suns more we need to see together.
     How many crops of bajra we need to reap together. 
Here we are. You and I.
     I’m pinching my eye for a horseshoe
     and you burn the last straw.
Here we are. You and I
     one soil 
     one allegiance.
No crannies 
     no room for split talk.
     to earn the ground beneath your feet
     and then it doesn’t take long to love.
     how far stretched can a war be with oneself.

(published in "New Asian Writing" and "Indiana Voice Journal")


I wouldn’t call you a nymph of the Orkney folklore
     or a mermaid of the mythical sea.
     Nothing fancy about losing both worlds! 
Living on the periphery does strange things to you
     a line of fiction
     a horizon
     a fringe
          time, nothing but a pretty satin ribbon in your fingers
          dress the falcon’s wings
          the Pegasus cloud and your own ashen feet.
     an empty epoch
          ravaged sinful torn sullied.
     a grey fable
          and a glow-worm city turns into forest fire.

The devils dance on your brows
     the calm
     the frolic
          an illusion of the yaksha.
     Back in the yard
          drum beats
          sweat beads 
               and rivers turn crimson.

I wouldn’t call you a genie of the lamp
     nothing fairy about a wanton wish
          a rub of the thumb
     nothing fairy about turning a kingdom into a sepia map
          a scroll of lost identity
     nothing fairy about letting the moths eat the borders.

(published in Indiana Voice Journal)