fellas and thrillas and drellas


, , ,

my child has blue eyes, even though

her father is swarthy and I am

from the south.  a bit of chains

aren’t unwelcome in our town.  the stories are

foreign and the vodka is northern.  she is

spinning down

the waterfall, cascading down the

green grocery aisle.  the sun hurts my

eyelids, even when I open my

lidz, even when i tilt my head and stroll in

the shadows.  tornadoes come and tornadoes

leave.  why don’t you ever go to the other side?

to zhe moon


, , ,

The cider is bitter, but the

air is sweet.  You pick up a

salted piece of pie and bring it

to your friend, the scientist.  A segment

of the future, underneath you.  It is blue and

green, a mass of rising height.  A phoenician

sees you in the water.  He yells for his prince.

They throw you rope, the ropes are snakes, the roses

are wakes, pedals in your eyes.

a feral wall moving and revealing a place of solitude


, , ,

a fat man drifts into

pakistan’s greatest spiritual

resting places.  The shapes around him shift,

the lights turn into shadows, the shadows

morph into stone.  his wife enters, and we hear

nada, she takes her hands together like

she is praying, but she rubs sunscreen

over his forehead and bulbous nose.

They find a little boy to adopt.