bloody things become bloodier
with cracked bones for each idea
with lost shells flying
until they land in flesh

bodies on bodies, death on death
for the sake not of life
but of the possibility of control
man over man

there is no meaning of life
in the midst of revolution
there is only blood
and fear
and loss of humanity.

The absolute truth about eyebrows

Nia Vardalos has two eyebrows
like many people — even Greeks —
above her beautiful eyes.

Most nights, like tonight,
they do nothing but wait there
for the morning to come
and eyes to open.

But some nights, if things are perfect
they twitch and raise and roll
they reach for the sky
and lift the eyes up into a smile that never ends.

I don’t ask Nia if she tweezes
or teases or plucks — I don’t ask
if she knows that beauty is in every follicle
every wrinkle, every whisper.

I just smile.

The Un-Mitigated Symbolism of People

in the bright new days
before the first sunset
i was three boys
without a dinosaur

all the sunlight sang
of yellow trucks — rain knew
only frogs and quiet dancing

in the muddied days
after the sunset
i was less than zero boys
only a dinosaur

where all the moonlight wept
for the losses
piled in moo-less barns
and forgotten

like a broken-legged cow
smelling of Egyptian perfume
— there is no explanation

the frog will leap alone
to or from and there is no knowing
which it was until the yellow truck crashes

What I know about Morocco

I know the capital is Rabat
and somewhere there is Casablanca

Other than that, I know nothing
except that some people there speak french.

I would ask someone,
but who is there to ask?

Even if they knew, why
would they tell me anything
about Morocco?

If they did know, I’m sure
they’d wonder, “Why
does he want to know about Morocco?”

I wouldn’t answer, they wouldn’t understand.
They wouldn’t understand
how I am broken, searching

for answers, and maybe
possibly (who knows)
some of them are in Morocco.

I’m afraid they’ll know
the truth — I am lost
and if there is any hope
it’s possible it’s in Morocco

I’m afraid they’ll know
I’m lying. I’m always lying —
I know I’ll never find myself
in Morocco.

(and that’s the real tragedy)


when the minestrone was gone
and the cough was the only testimony
i – being sad
watched her leave

hungry and hurting and sick

later, when she was feeling better
i could apologize
give her hot coffee
offer a laugh

but the soup was gone
when she needed soup
and my words were gone
when she needed hope
and she was gone
when i needed to say
i’m sorry

umbilical cord

some boys are born on thursdays
like me — premature and tiny

their mothers love them
because some boys are loved

even if the pain is overwhelming

other boys are born on otherdays
like someone not me — on time and fat

their mothers love them
because most boys are loved

even if the pain is overwhelming

the rest of the babies are girls
and they are born whenever they please
and they are small or large
and always loved by their daddy’s

either way, boy or girl
the pain grows greater every day
just like the love

for the sublime

everything explodes, because there is space
to fill between the notes. there is a rhythm
to the motion of stars, the knowledge of gravity
and all the things i need to say

everything retreats, because there is pressure
to fill between the notes, there is rhythm
to the light of stars, the knowledge of distance
and all the things i want to give

everything, because there is space, becomes
the music or the stars — the knowledge
or the words

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