To a particular man I know little

…and in the corner I found him silent

head low, slouched, exhausted

a lot of things can be said about him

yet he was silent like a fetus in a woman’s womb

he is a man—

a man without a story

in a book left in my closet–

such a mystery filled only with

dots and dashes

But who’s to say–

from all the rumors

his heart is lost—

Lost to a tribe of the inner persona;

familiar to none.

But he loves and does love hard;

a beauty concealed by a mechanism

he called defense.

‘they’ say we need more than just thoroughfares

his body can try to be out going but truly, a contrast of what’s inside his soul.

But I have his name

his number,

his poems,

his faces,


often I get brain freeze–

how interesting I only have these; little to nothing at all–

and I call him unpredictable.

His wind storms, it’s never calm

it cuts off trees and breaks glass windows

cos pain leaves him an element of blank_________.

Oh yes he does love and love so hard

or rather before his mind denies his heart.

His heart

is a silk woven myriads of wonderful stories

his eyes are the kindest behind all his frozen secrets

He is a fine man with such wildness in his bones

so beautiful, beautiful only if it is known.

To a particular man I know little

His hand is warm.

his aura a demon, people run for the hills–

He is a factory of oddity,

his heart a mayonnaise of unspoken words at the mere touch of cold philosophy—

To which, I often err his sadness for coldness and I clip his Angel wings.

rural to urban, 

to a painter’s house or just beach bumming

his lips are dyed of the colors of the landscape

..and his mind in awe of eccentricity

His life a fold of folded folds

searching for a space to rest as his home

women are illusions; children are provisions

he searches the nooks and the alleys oh but,

steps back not to see something

such a hassel-free, if only–

to find whom he intends to be


the one thing he seeks and shall ever find—

is the thing he puts aside.

Mad woman

She’s a mad woman.

her face hides so much truth

and her words rather nonsensical

for others, they wonder (haven’t you?)

she’s a mad woman filled with chaotic energy

don’t think you can overpower her; she hasn’t given you her full-attention JUST YET.

When you see her with little or no energy, and it’s a good advice, your presence and ego-boosting intellect simply bore her to death

Her nature is charming and childlike to an extent, annoying she loves to play on trivial days

what you see, what you get

take her or leave her but even those remain questionable

“Do this, do that”

stay here; wait here

Control her to change her

be persistent on these and you’ll see her standing on the door leaving, sighing and blinding

Don’t mistake her though

Her parents brought her orthodox so half of her life was she a meek doll

the rest was differential

she seems undisciplined; uncontrolled; thoughtless but don’t be fooled like the others

she is dangerous when she’s at her best

she’s a mad woman so far, that’s one clue

she’s free; freedom is the key

adventures, new beginnings, fresh ideas, practical stuffs, unknown truths—-

Let her mind travel and her body grows thrills and she’ll be with you for the long haul.

the trick is in her eyes;

there is a reason for her eyes evasive nature

they wield her purest fires.

Judge her actions judge her well and she’ll leave no stone unturned

as she challenges you in every way, from an intellectual conversation to an unusual first date to a spirited argument and a physically satisfying resolution to the most outlandish storytelling and drama

But not unless she’s comfortable.

Her emotions can be sometimes over the place not to get your attention 

But to be at home with her emotions 

She can be very honest if you ask for the facts

A perverted monkey if you remain a jerk 

An awesome nymph for such mutually fierce desires 

She’s a mad woman the kind you’ll love to keep 

A mad woman who doesn’t confuse her ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ just to get the guy

And sometimes, she is just a woman. Mad. Mad. Mad woman to choose to be a woman; to allow you to be her man.

The mad woman who offers you real bond and new beginnings. 








To the woman who is my friend

“Woman! your body is not for any street gentleman who brings you to a fancy club

at their very convenient hour. It doesn’t matter if he’s a genius boy, a cool guy, an astute looking man, a rich bachelor once he makes you his booty call,  his second option, his stunt girlfriend, his latest trend and his ‘vague forever’.

So to any man you run into don’t let your guard down.

They are vultures and hunters of the primitive age—

and kidnapping your panty is quite a no brainer.

Let them complain about your weird standards,

Let them throw stones at your lust for real connections,

Let them judge you and be awed to know who you are inside because..

real men, no matter what, will always  have goals, visions and a willing-act for you free from any ancient prejudice or judgment.

You are not a high-way where 10-wheeler trucks and garbage vehicles pass full-speed ahead.

You are not an automatic-slut-machine who gives them a triple monkey face for ‘Jackpot.’

You are not their dishwasher, their vacuum cleaner and, their auto-bot; you also tear and wear.

Your beauty and sensuality are not only for fb and instagram-selfies 

Don’t be so impulsive to be known; don’t be so empty for a show 

Value yourself like no other

Dream hard and dream big make them all your reality

Don’t give in to half-live, half-life, half-time and half-love

Be passionate, be gentle and loving to yourself

Be your own trustworthy companion

Allow yourself to love and don’t be frugal with it

People hurt you yes they will

Some have made you feel miserable

But don’t be so hard on yourself

Life is about going through all the mistakes, the messy-mucky-fucky side of it, thrive on it; learn to overcome

Always have a growth mind-set

Don’t allow your soul to get stuck on something that doesn’t serve you good

Men will lure you, bewitch you and make you theirs for what purpose we don’t know yet 

Don’t be in a hurry to follow what others do or make 

Create your own and be your own original 

People will tell you things but remember they have never walked a mile in your shoes so be conscious 

To understand and be considerate enough 

Be the kind of woman you would never wish to let go of ; 

You are a woman.

You are your own healthy paradox. “



My friend, I have written you like this

I have written you my best friend into a specialised poetry 

The Achilles, the Hercules ; the untouchable hero 

in a puzzle piece put in place intentionally ; our friendship displayed on a white wall 

I like him beyond words 

Even though ‘like’ makes you romanticize all things 

I think telling you the truth is incredibly more brilliant so take this 

brief confession :

Yes, we do have a shaky start of meeting, bonding over small talks and shared love for books 

And in all honesty, it is simple, not quite obvious; pure 

I wouldn’t say it blossoms out in utmost perfection like that of a beautiful sunshine 

In fact, it is a bottomless pit, bloody as we tip-toe, play and argue  over one umbilical cord. 

Sure, we are two separate poles in one magnet 

a wound from a dark poetry that dry us then stitch back up in tears from a stalemate 

On the forefront, he is an organ donor and I am the recipient from a time when my insides had to be removed for all the people to view 

We are victims of sheer dissection and his time is preserved for me 

Gossip mongers and fake friends look so hard for the code behind our secret actions ; the eye movement and emphatic words 

Our diaphragms continue to expand; breathing heavily as he lends his bone-marrow to cure my cancer-filled body as I let his overworked mind rest in my warm heart 

Our wrists leak out with fresh blood and we need each other like tight tourniquets to keep our souls in our life beds

Most of the time, we are silent ; contained sobs in a period of no contact 

sometimes we anger one another that we push ourselves away over long points and tired excuses we forget what they are 

Absolutely, our knuckles are bruised,  rough and messy lives, changing dead skins, we are put together by our focused warmth. 

Before and now

Before I was satisfied with the prestige brought by writing a couplet then I learned about haiku and loving its 5-7-5 lines as much as the first.


When I met you, various collections of Russian novels and southern poems I wanted to touch and read. Whether they’d be in prose, in episodes or in a grand narrative. Words to adorn you while you sleep. For how many versions, sure. I’d love to. When you looked at that spot near your city forming a triangle as you spent a good 10 minute stare at it from your Godparents’ condo, I didn’t know how engrossing that moment could be. Or when you walked out on the quite sidewalks and started reminiscing precious times around town, I’d trade any of my possession to write about that. How you opened a beer in my honor after we shared petty stories. And while you drove your Dad interestingly, I thought about more words to put that scene in a clear-cut poem. 


I see you every time and it’s rare how consuming to find you in every word. Of course, there has to be some plots. Perhaps, plots could run like the Caucasian lad inheriting a necklace then, the necklace made him a merman. Or a series of detective plots written vividly only to find you the hero at the end part. Then, finding gold in the house of the peasants where you lived on your vacation but thought money could be destructive so you built them a school and the money for their books and their first teacher was you. Or maybe a collaborative work with different types of people doing humanitarian work in Nicaragua and in Tanzania.

Anything as in any thing. 

Words just love you


as I do.