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.

Guts and Glory

100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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We put out bullets like bubbles
It is the joy of erasure,
Aren’t you proud yet?
My mother’s songs are like plastic bags,
Her hair are orange creepers shrouding the ceiling fan.
Today I need a glove, I am only my hands
Touch me, open up my chessboard
The boxes are a moonlit night
64 Circles.
“Chew your food!”
My chest swallows up the buttons like a toothless vagabond,
But I retch and let
a tunnel come out of my gut
People scream in delight,
O Lord Flight
—Every house’s household deity
(They know that salvation is a cabin of ministers)
But I’m a trite, an imitation of this god,
A red dot
That sits between your legs.

The Crocodile


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Image by Vitogoni 

Dear words,
make me
me again.

There is a river in the jungle,
in it,
men floated like water
and animals bowed their head
to drink in life
even when death muddied their beds.

I keep having horrible dreams,
of children and swimming pools
water, for death
as in womb.

Dishonesty or Way of life?
Predators drinking at the bank,
Oh, what an uncanny space.

You think you have stopped watching the news,
but have you?