We toured the backstreets of the old town,
inside the bright cinema of midday sun.
In the plaza, edgy restaurateurs
offered squid ink and pickled meat,
and the households of grand families
competed in a war of bougainvillea.
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
We toured the backstreets of the old town,
inside the bright cinema of midday sun.
In the plaza, edgy restaurateurs
offered squid ink and pickled meat,
and the households of grand families
competed in a war of bougainvillea.
make it prescient like fried curly hair
and bold image
warhol-bright so your eyes explode
in a glimpse of ba-ba-boom
we keep walking
maybe fearful of touching
in front of others
unable to be completely who we are
two men with love
happily growing older
together
the genre of god
is locksmith and that’s
why neon is always
looking for a sign :
Most of my life-years,
you were already dead. Even in our brief overlap
you were not known to me.
It’s hard being a poet in 2020
Which is when this will be published
If you have the GUTS to publish it
Which I doubt
Being bitter & twisted
I swam in the Gulf of Thailand with you.
I held you, small as a kumquat, in my own dark, small sea.
I often think of telling you
There is something wrong with time here.
I’m not sure whether I age faster or, quite the contrary –
Once we’re introduced again, I’ll be annoying in my youth.
She’s pulling up weeds from the flowerbed
And then starts feeling one tug back,
Wrapping her water grip and dragging her
Through the claggy earth.
This rockmelon is bloated with guilt
Sweet, near-rancid, on the knife’s edge of festering
Press down and it will oblige
I had
one chance out of zero,
but spent a youth chasing
what I am still not.
points for you if you are boss of the building, every lock
warm at your fingertips, every door’s soft click
yours as it shuts, every window with your face
reflected in it.