mosquito love

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mosquito love

hatched on mischance

a nugatory puddle

on the side of a road

sparsely traveled

rising in the heat

of defeat from ditch

to redoubtable despot

through your wide

open window

down to your armpit’s

sour humidity

neckbone wrist

thick stickiness of your

inner thighs as you swat

with pagan fervor to

the rhythm of gospel hymns

weaving in and out

of the yellow lines


carpe diem

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carpe diem

on a raft floating atop the ocean of despair, you find an island. the island is a part of you. you dreamed it into being one night in your now forgotten homeland. dehydrated and emaciated, you scour the hot, silver sand in search of food, only to find a mango tree. the tree has bent branches and desiccated leaves; it could have been growing there since the paleolithic only to begin its slow descent to avernus in the few decades before your arrival, when it is needed perhaps more than any point in time wherein it existed. you take the one pale green and red fruit and peel away its soft skin, undressing it in the muted light of evening. you bring the stinking, sticky flesh to your face: it is rotting.

writer’s block

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writer’s block

you paint mountains with black ink,

back bent from the task’s rigor

white paper cracking, green noise

the fan blowing overhead. at night,

you count styrofoam stars

on the ceiling above. what is a poet

without colors, vibrant shades to quelch

the quotidian disposition?  words fail

as they always do, a vertitable constant

as the sweat stain on your back

on summer afternoons when i forget you’re a mere

figment, a whisper floating in the leaden air.

the memory remains uneffaced…your dress of green lace,

the way you curled your finger around a wisp of hair

which you whipped in waves of aureate light,

but by night you were a bird, a long-billed crane

floating over the lifeless water in the languid evening rain.


at the museum

Pieter Bruegel the Elder - Hunters in the Snow (Winter) - Google Art Project.jpg

at the museum

he enters the foyer assailed by the scent of lemons and the ghosts of dead artilleryman who wander the halls in search of a warm body for their stories to inhabit. they are obsessed by their death, consumed by it. how does one express the inexplicable sorrow of somersaulting from a high turret after a bullet pierces an artery while one’s last breath is spent inhaling the thick fog of gunsmoke? they reach for the man, but he is wrapped in the scarves of silence, suffocating beneath the heavy boot of soullessness. for the duration, he stares at bruegel’s hunters, enraptured by the idea of snow, which is altogether more tangible than the material itself, being only a white substance causing numbness to the naked hand. he cannot help but think how indebted we are to symbols, and how even the most illuminating symbols, products of immaculate paintings and poems of precise and vivid language are mere shades and paltry colors. he does the math of metaphysics, reaching each painstaking sum on his chubby fingers. to this day he is still counting.