I had a bad relationship with food & men. Being female meant being food provider. Social rules turned to acid in my stomach. Eventually they’d pour out of my mouth as bilious words, undigested pressure. I asked shaadi boys if they could cook before their moms could ask me. No…
I was an English-speaking/writing poet in a sea of people who defined patriotism by their own language. I wrote about my journey of patriotism through language.
A poem of delirium when the pain has transcended escape.
They says poets are just plain horny and boys with guitars are just trying to get laid. Well..I am a poet. And I can write in goosebumps scattered across your skin, like Braille for the words-impaired. My language could lie in words all over your body. And making love to…
Everyone else withers away into corpses, but a writer leaves behind a corpus. Reading is an act of timeless love. Be a reader.
If you were born in another era, who would you be? What would your personality be like? Your values? How would you survive that world? What role would you play?
Your body language speaks your name. I have only my words. I’m a bundle of all things that hide inside “I’m okay.”
Lockdown necessitated home haircuts. But it feels like surrendering hope. And atop my head, there is mayhem. What hairy sorcery is this?
Two strangers who once were not. Or were they?
There’s a name for my generation. Children of Baby Boomers who arrived some calendar pages too early to be Millenial. Generation X.