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dirty hair

blonde strands as venetian blind,

one eye looked out over past the covers,

placed deeply under her chin, almost to a light choke.

decidedly, she opened


both eyes into halo admitting slits.

the brown skinned body angled slightly

toward the window made the first moment

of waking sight accosting—


intriguing. a tinge of guilt for being voyeuristic

tried to bubble up, as in the way societally trained

people perform manners

with plasticine precision.


large and full—deceptively fantastic

bent over, tightened in

accentuated to noteworthy;

all can be plastic when eyes aren't open.


‘she’s right, when she has a guy fucking her from behind

they really are in luck,’ she recounts,

closing shut and scoots her own ass

a few inches,


her bed to herself

stretches stretches

alarm reset, most likely to be ignored

to set her into a purposeful lazy sense of panic.


‘i only feel this way after...’


snooze...baggy black dress, deodorant

in sedimentary layers, as too the mascara,

bobby pins, red pens, whatever, showers

have been optional this week.


twenty minutes late,

unabashedly related to humidity

and heavyish platforms;

a different dirty monday.


the caravel hotel

found amongst the macau mirrors, within the mass produced black lacquer box,

teacups, saucers, lids and pots strategically placed, a pink paper slips,


printed less daintily than ornate pastel patterning, a warning emits:

crush the pills beneath the pillow, swallow whole the peanut brittle, grow a meter


but then drown in bathtub ink. black tongues lapping at oxygen, an inch left, seizing 

each millisecond, for a sip of steaming air—she wakes up panting, thirsting,


thoughts are breaking, lapping, looping, and she feels the patterns printed in her skin.

she can feel the pads across embossing, the veins of still whole craft palpating.


you know the contours of the cruising, the dimensions of the chips and flakes.

you wake, bodies heavy in an ancient state.


she missed out, most regretfully,

by the oozing flesh beneath her nails;

the thoughts of loss dig deeper,

despite the pulsing wounds;


tearing heftier discount bedding off,

tangled thoughts of brocade linger,

but she’s made of all that's borrowed:

bone blue broken teeth.

taipei: a haibun

heavy, filthied silver and red panes run perpendicular to the slabs of city cement. christmas striped paths to lead the denizens in walking safely, always to the side. swaying gently above, but not against these rectangles of man-made stability and direction, are innumerable trailing droplets of lush green life. vines infinitely smaller than the once clear pipes terminating in never been white buckets, each lain in moldy snaking rows: clogging the bronchial tubes of the city, leaving her diurnally begging for clarity. greyscale gestates with the summer heat, swelling the corrugated passageways with hand-sewn nylon attempts at protection, the rhythmic ballooning and contracting, dampened unskilled hands running up and down, the sweat of the uninitiated streaming quicker.

wishing winds to whisper balance

each palpation assumes

a clean rinse

morning muriel, mother, et al.

dante has been resurrected to mean the same truths in my living room — the hellish blister

developing on tongue tip worrying me much —  a small red spoon — the sound of the screeching

cat in the alleyway i lament i ever fell for as a view made me know its name — ginger

boiled in large paper cups could’ve caused my wound – i always forget to be green


mosquitos buzz as my mother watches me swat — ‘why are you even still awake?’

i say to it — in the morning there are the wash sounds — the swish and smack

sounds — the frailty of the outdoor sinks — the reminder my underwear has soaked

far too long — the thought that the white mold is better than the black — and clap!


mother puts me down on her crimson sofa arm — screams for her not so puppy-pet —

i glance out to a photograph — questioning myself — in high school — it's far too high

up — noting forgetfulness of what walls are made of at that address — peripherally i have found

in The Life of Poetry — moving on from dante, in the next corner it is writ:

         A poem is an imaginary work, living in time, indicated in lan-

guage. It is and it expresses; it allows us to express.