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they’ve heard souls and soles

from time to time

become worn out; it is in the literature—

not the curious kind on cheap paper, folded expertly

as if reincarnated from naughty origami,

lightly stamped in subpar typeface, polylinguistic warrantees


they’ve seen abominations

but found gendered gods in every place;

baffled by the lack of sacred, in some

threadbare configurations

haunting domestic thresholds

they found

the most curious of all:


straddling a spectrum

of size, make, model, color

bare or hardly visible

were the keepers,

somewhere near the door


and to which of these səʊls

do they account

for all the fleshy floors

left beneath

all left behind?

some pictures may have been deleted

'that’s the middle of things…right there’ 

trying to take a snap, a video, a token, a story—

i give up as he pauses, makes eye contact

                          a dozen shells of dough flipped in their metal bassinet slash casket

you see? it’s both birth and death,

                          air moving with him stopping constitutes the gap

—but back to bubbling,

                          facing a new side of the circular hell

my pupils large enough to scare each flame lick into submission,

i continue, away

‘you’ll remember, for a little bit at least’ she consoles

yes yes, in media res


squinting unappreciatively in a rhombus

of evening sunlight on a worn down corner

waiting to cross four lanes in forty seconds

she squats bare-legged

with surplus luggage

hidden fees taped to her lashes.

in nine lines

her rebellion sprouts once warningly kissed beneath the buzz

of jets bound for endless possibilities—a vessel on a vessel, filling

spilling—now dislocation shakes the body, she jabs her inherited verandah awning

with a familiarly disparate rod, hollowness cannot stay full devoid of voice

scooping up all excess with foreign fingers, sprawled in loose defiance

she laps up rations of difference, quenching a piercing never healed through

her hope squeezed thick as sealant: repelling rearticulation of energy stolen—

slowly, slowly, self-awareness climbs free of the cluttered depository: clear

the ancient throat, shaking off dead letters, reclaiming long forgotten punctuation

night remedy

silent slices of cellophane against scissor, 

silent rebirth of content in new context,

forcing gag to wear the audial mask of stifle


silent stops of irrationality, 

silence gained as if it gulped itself 

down the san fran ipa 

while, blue and yellow purple pills assassinate 

meditative facial gestures and poor lip sync