If poetry is settling,
what is a stirring spoon
in the muddied water?

There is no metaphor
that sits at the bottom of the glass
that may leap up
with a momentum of a frog
and catch you
before you swallow your indigestion once again,
and mold into
yet another insoluble

Till the new war
opens its mouth
and the mercenary irrigates the bomb,
the glass will became fertile again
with the notion of end
as with blood.

The metaphor of the bird

Image result for Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country
Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country

How many times have I
criticized the metaphor of the bird,
when my mother would say
how free
is she
and I’ll put my hand
upon my cold forehead,
It doesn’t ring right,
I tell her,
it is a projection into
wishful thinking.

It is unruly for you, I tell her,
to fly without airports,
immigration officers,
the office cicadas,
the old regular bloated system
to color within the lines,
the patterned sweat it brings upon your back,
the despair of
the black and white, dust-colored earth
that holds your feet.

I think of the rain–
often I wish to sink
in earth, in a paradox of
feeding back the fertility
with a gift of sleep,
and perhaps the satisfaction of
a life-long debt repaid
is the final flying.


Image result for motel surrealism
Artist unknown

In a dream,
an unconscious town
wrapped in the dusk of a cheap motel
where lights circled like afternoon houseflies
this is your name.

Like an arc
of time
spread upon a bow
and with each malignant touch
the veins open
and the room rings with an effort of a Darwin
‘adapt lest you die’,
but I don’t
and I won’t

for I am to witness

The Room

See the source image

My life lays scattered on my bed,
the objects, the body parts,
a hand paired with a bow
a foot strangling the leg of the bed
a hollow-eyed German doll
a bastard-colored coffee mug
a pillow of some delicate virgin
the aged ash in a steel bowl
a floral rice cooker
a snooping miniature of a black cat–

In disbelief,
I (real)ize
into things.

Chink in time

Image result for stage surreal

Notice how
whenever they switch on the mic
and arrest it upon an empty stage,
the absence becomes a vapor
and there remains a small ghost of the
white noise;
the tip of a tongue
for an orator to fall out.

And in turn,
then his tip of tongue
the bow-drawn
the breath before diving
will fall with a break
and release the vociferous of
copper plates, drum sticks
the china of various polished teeth,
ladies with popcorn gait
circus balls, faux fur
blood-thirst, a podium,
the eye of the needle.

the eye of the needle,
the eye of the keyhole,
there is no orator
there is no visitor at the door.

Song for one more sleep

Image result for insect surrealism morning
Monday Morning by Nikolina Petolas

There was a whistling
right after the morning fell off it’s egg shelf
and broke in the tundra of
life-leaking toothbrush basin,
like some rabid dog
tearing nail for tooth

My hands with some old mosquito blood
caught a hold of this insect
and placed it upon the bicycle of
a man selling sofa and cushion covers;
as a result,
it dilapidated
it coughed–
ousting the vigor of the southern spring
and other marooned extravagances like
political declarations, love-promises,

In a small monotone
my morning paddles with this man,
dragged into the sullen of the afternoon,
laid with the song of a distant Koel bird,
It is now
put to rest,
put to sweet-sweet sleep.

Occasional Corridor

Image result for medieval surrealism monk

Varo Remedios – Les Feuilles Mortes 

There is an ineptitude
in excess of feelings
that devour all the words,
until they are encountered by a large door
painted with a medieval-mourning,
clothed in a monk-brown;
it is really not strange
for me to be deeply in love
and to be found at this gate,
it is a segue
by disbelief in yet a higher altitude
by no higher altitude altogether,
as if Meaning,
eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.


Image result for plant surreal ears
The ear by Hans Peter

Life becomes alien in my hands
a sniffle
a startled sneeze
that pursues comicality in irony,
ever so foreign in every repetition.

A tree grew out of my ears,
it was planted when I was small
and my father had opened up my skull
to look for a foul germination;
something must have fell in then
and something must have fell out,
Words leave me dissected.