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Thumbs, or Glut Your Soul Upon My Accursed Ugliness
Genetics, via habit, go into greater detail. Mine are uneven and gnawed, on-again-off-again
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The Selected Sex Lives of Filipina Maids
Outside #01-239, the post office in Lucky Plaza, they leer at her, and she wonders what the three of them are doing there. Don’t Bangladeshi workers belong in Little India?
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I like you best when your lines are blurry
I like you best when your lines are blurry, and your words melt from mouth to air
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In the Long-Ago Days of Reagan
The year 1992 seems deceptively recent until one realizes that whole twelve-year-olds have been put together since then, built molecule by molecule into a generation of giggling girls and shaggy-haired boys not quite young enough to be my children but shockingly close to being old enough to have children.
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Our Burger King
We would meet in front of the Burger King in Piccadilly Circus to go to West End nightclubs during August of 2004, me and two Spanish sisters from my old residence hall who shared a love of dancing and cheap drinks.
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Poems
Slug Polaroid ?I.?On a walk through Killarney, I dodge wet loaves.?They would soon stick to sole:?husky bits of polka-dotted licorice,?black pudding gnocchi.??II.?I imagine plasmodial slime mold and black bear cubs?would spawn something like this glossy lump.??III.?At a house near Volx, we drink Pastis:?bananayellowshake with too much ice?melted by the Provençal sun.?It slows, idles us.??IV.?Coral weathered…
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Self portrait
Frank O’Hara writes a poem about why he’s not a painter, and in it he writes a poem called “Oranges” with no orange. So I’ll write a self portrait without myself. I’ll write instead about what I like: the opera, “Surfer Girl,”?walking right after it rains and the damp makes slight adhesion between foot and…