Mr. Z opened the door to a preacher of the One Truth: the man in a hat looked around the room.
the queen wasp / opens her first pair of arms. / she convulses in the right chamber like / how nails sanctify a board.
Death was passing through the pores of waiting / like fresh messages from the sky
we’ve started to disassemble the land mines / and plant roses and poems instead.
I recall the prickly pear shrub that never failed to pierce me as I tucked my skinny body behind it, trying to hide…
i want metaphors to taste as good / as bread soaked in milk
Morning headaches are set to blow up my brain / The extra gift of great machines
I am afraid / no one understands // the gentle mind of someone / living like a hermit
If it wasn’t for our inborn optimism –
we drop coins into the sea, plant pear trees that are going to grow for centuries –
understanding of reality would burn us
like a match may burn poplar fluff
Today the warden has come to visit. He hands me a napkin with a color print of “The Storming of the Bastille” on one side, an escape plan on the other.