Hands

People tell you

you've got the hands of an architect

Do you fancy the space around walls

at a professional level

or do you dabble

like an amateur pornographer

devouring each mediocre column with your eyes

like an A-cup

waiting to be enhanced with a nipple tassel

scrutinizing each paint swatch like a tit in a crowd

wondering who the fuck would assign a name like

Aphrodite's Menses to a hue that resembles

charred bologna

but you sit at your unused drafting table

and spend hours

staring at your hands

Estrogen & Tonic

You listen to a voice

for so long that its sonic appeal

evanesces

And you walk to the park and sit

by the tree beneath which you

proposed

Eyes welling up with wet cement

you try to recall when

the novelty began to slowly whittle away

And how long the transient splendor

of novelty even existed before humans

compulsively hammered a word onto it

Did there ever exist a time in which

the things that initially felt good

remained that way?

Death is her pillowcase

her lingering perfume that pervades

the musty space of your apartment

the disgusting condiments she would

always insist that you'd stock up on

"Who the hell puts Worcestershire sauce

on a tuna sandwich,

anyhow?"

Dialogorrhea: A Love Story

i

"Gosh, nature is so incredible! Isn't it? I mean, look at all these rocks! They have this amazing scent. It almost smells like a really nice men's cologne, but it's completely natural! Nature is amazing!"

"Um, I think what you're smelling is probably laundry detergent. There's a coin laundry across the street. You'd be surprised by how far that scent travels."

ii

"When be dat bus at?"

"Oh, 'scuse me, sir. Hi. Just a tip: You might not want to mix tenses like that. You'll find that when connotes Time while at connotes Place. One should choose the former or the latter lest one send the listener into a mottled linguistic frenzy. These are the logistics of the English language, you see. Do you read me, sir? . . . sir?"

iii

"I don't have many ambitions, nor do I harbor any large-scale dreams for my future. And truth be told, I don't think I'll ever intend to."

"Then how is it that whenever I see you, it's as if it is always on the best day of your life? You seem content for a man without any dreams."

"Oh, but my life's a massive mosaic of 'em! I'm not a dusty, unimaginative machine. Every day is another dream and every night's aspiration is to wake up. Waking up always seems to suffice, too. I only wish to continue on this dreamtrain, to ensure that it doesn't derail, y'know? Am I confusing you?"

"A little. How about I sleep on it, and get back to you?"

Line Breaks, con sal.

By sundown,

I'm but a million morsels of decay

as atoms reverse their tap dance
in a delayed orbit
around each eyeful of almonds
two salty caverns

This brand of torture is as exclusive

as it is elusive
swift, comparable to
a mere drizzle of honey;

it's funny
But not in a healthy way

Stream of Consciousness

I stood at your grave,
with fists full of change,
change in the form of words,
words I couldn't previously say,
due to tides of time,
ebbing and flowing in the form of
change, change in the form of words,
words I collect in a felt hat, as
I busk for saplings of change,
change in the form of words,
words written in ink, exchanged
between changing strangers,
in the rain, on the bus, in the
train station, as people change
hats and faces and trains,
trains in the form of thought,
thoughts I collect in a cup,
a cup I keep above my bed
with a straw, a straw in the form
of a speaker, a speaker moving
voices, holding song, above my bed,
talking about
change.

A few servings of Haiku, in bed

This is not the end
We are despised, yes, but hey-
There's always the sea

I make no judgments.
But, sonic aesthetics? Well,
that... That doesn't count.

Cornucopia
Of wild, elusive facets
You show none but one

"Lay Lady Lay" looped
As we made love until noon,
Wish this bed were brass

"I only have eyes
for you," he said, she pondered,
then gauged, whispered, "Thanks..."

I am constantly
Coming up with new ways to
Say I do not know

Glukupikron

Slice onions with your shoulder blades
Pummel you blue
Made promises amid fits of laughter

You knew not to believe them

Didn't you?

¼ Haiku, ¾ Whimsy

There's something about
Cacti and fresh paints that gets
Me hot and bothered

Photograph not my intellectual property

courtesy of "Native Body Art" by Fiorella Podesta

1973

I may turn this into a longer short story, flash fiction OR I may just let it stay a short-short. We will see. Regardless, please fling your criticism forth.


Growing up, my mother always worried about me. She would say things like, "Honey, you don't have to take the stairs. There is an elevator, and the chances of a fire occurring are far slimmer than the chances of you falling down those stairs and breaking all of your frail, little bones..." Her voice dripped with saccharine concern. I could tell that she prized me, and not in the typical motherly way, but in the same way that she prized the dozens of collectible figurines she kept in the glass case in the living room. One night, when I was fourteen, I crept out my bedroom window to catch a 10 p.m. showing of American Graffiti with my best friend. I could tell you that we were wholesome, angelic teenagers but then I would be lying. Innocence is mental and behavioral, and while my behavior was charmingly meek, my thoughts were crazed and wildly rebellious. Daydreams of mine consisted of intermittent bank robberies and hordes of hormone-crazed teenagers painting each other's bodies in layers upon layers of pheromones . . . real kinky Bonnie & Clyde shit. While watching American Graffiti, a sudden electrifying urge burst forth within me involving Richard Dreyfuss and copious amounts of leather. And I never was the same.

Prosetry I

That was the night in which I traversed several roads to get to one, the only one that welcomes me in the same, uniform way every time I cast my eyes upon that weathered, dual-decked vessel. After further mummifying my wrist, I scurried inside and could smell the holy dilapidation of something so loved that it’s destroyed. Even the surrounding sidewalks remain enamored with dirt and mud and muck.
Do not bother wiping the ugly remnants off your shoes
allow them to be danced
shaken
jumped off

"Who sings this?"

What happens when a bigot

falls in love
with the fervent cream of
a black woman's singing voice?

It snows in Miami.