Monday, July 31, 2017

My favorite poem is up at CROW HOLLOW 19, Murder Four, Spring 2017

My favorite poem is up at CROW HOLLOW 19, Murder Four, Spring 2017

Opposing Conversations

If I stare at the wave,  
I turn-on the irony
of oceanic depths.

If I stop the air
with my dead scaly skin,
I break-into desolate barren places.

Wise Audiences

Wise Audiences 

When you're inside me 
i don't know if you laugh 

or if you come from boredom. 
if your tongue freshens 

or arrives from fever. 
i don’t know 

if what you search for 
on weekends exists 
inside me. 

i know life stretched out 
beneath your abs  

is the same as snakes 
and concurrent solitudes

that correspond 
to the twinkling light 
where i can see you.

Luis Fonsi - Despacito ft. Daddy Yankee

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Two poems up at Rigorous

Poems Up at Rigorous: Last Truth and There was a crime ...

dead bird

dead bird

spread out over the frost
of my emancipation
thought i heard chimes ring
announce a vision of mine 
mid desert saguaros
i opened my eyes
lips for words
that inhabit approaching bodies
of dangerous animals
i do not dare

Friday, July 28, 2017

Let's Stay Home and Watch a Movie

Let's Stay Home and Watch a Movie

What else can I say?
Blood gallops in the streets
and inside the Whitehouse
head first into the face 
of an office manager.

Darts into the song of birds
and inside the Malls downtown
Blood bolts everywhere

We're not safe in the bathroom,
or buying chocolates!
We need a bodyguard to go to the florist
and if we dare say we want to visit a museum, uff
We won't exist long enough to see 
we're in the Blue House that's no longer blue, 
nothing blue anymore, not even the sky
Everything turned violently red

blood sprinting in the streets
like the dirty hands of the president
like Red, Red Sunrise and Red Mary

To see red houses, love,
we don't need to go that far

Thursday, July 27, 2017

Canto to Men

Canto to Men

I sing to the destitute souls
to their ancient lineage of shadows

to the corpses of hope
and foam of days

Canto crisscrossed by absence
wound of time that spreads

to unarmed Mythologies
shredded by crumbling hours 

when staring at you was always my design
informed face of all my solitudes 

accomplice of the deepest silence
I was once able to endure

Memory Lapses

Memory Lapses 

all the women
I imagined had your face
they were all you 
in their own way, I was you 
in my own way too

free me 
from unfulfilled 
its useless worry
its vain misery

I don't understand
your way of loving
my love 
what do you love
if you run away

at last you have returned
or you didn't leave
or I didn't leave
the fact is you're here
& I don't know if I am

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

painted sea - a tanka, Japanese short five line poem

free me, 
disappearing island
& painted sea, 
not from memory but from 
the light that is desire

painted sea
& disappearing island
not from memory,
from light that is desire―
free me

He left like a

He left like a 

rambunctious whirlwind
looked back smiling in silence
wore well-laced boots
did not forget the tears
bent corners without dropping eyes
no diminishing storms in site
drew an ocean on his pale cheeks 
with all the pent-up pain

I do not matter!

a step behind the other’s back
closed fist
nibbled heart & swallowed rage
spit lahars
bit himself so many times
that all he wanted
was to hang bright stars
while flocks of birds crossed 
moonlit skies 

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Muddy water

Muddy water

you sent me your floating likeness
it sloshed when you stomped 
the pool of water

Slippery wet echo
you sound like paper 
crushed by hard stone hands

Your rusted teeth 
and muddy being breathe in air
bite the memory

that cannot return
You chew on the tangle
of stones and dirt

splatter your conceited 
smelly self all over my page
and profile

Monday, July 24, 2017

When Your Hearing Aid is Off

When Your Hearing Aid is Off

Those rare eyes contemplate
a grotesque city drowned in graffiti,
tombstone for exquisite corpses.

Where I come from people talk about sex
to encourage laughter. All trust their genitals
to the mouths of others. All.

Trees are paper crematory urns,
and water carries death camps
in its oxygen.

I'm deceived in believing I can rewrite all this pain. 
Having a clear conscience is a symptom 
of poor memory crowded between us
as if it were the sole opinion as to what 
the meaning of facing each other 
to discriminate is.

Poem Up at Blue Bonnet Review

Poem Up at Blue Bonnet Review, it's in Spanish: Mi Mar

Sunday, July 23, 2017

fleeing - tanka

to Sodom with Descartes
I announce the method
to curtail love …
the fib

Wednesday, July 19, 2017



Photography has no other task
-shows the void where no one 
molts their skin

Words lit the Oracle 
that no one beckoned
and the street inhabited 
the elusive passage 

Someone left us 
the wrong amulet
and left

In the mirror
my shadow creates 
another shadow

All the loneliness of mankind
in the latter act



carry the shadows 
that break the voice in stones
the loneliness of pens
ink's void

Men hang their mouths 
on oil-free streetlights
with the knot 
that tie's their shoes 
to extinction

Mute word

who knows more
than the taciturn?

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Ephemeral Hatchling

Ephemeral Hatchling

A bird lands on my garden.
I know thanks
to the discontinuous
pixel movements of its brief
leaps on the grass.
It rummages for supplies
with its childlike beak
between the tiny leaves
on the ground.

The grass, I tell myself, the grass
is where the food is hidden.

I'm about to decipher this mystery,
it’s like the poetic breathe that precedes it.
Always something violent, the breeze
blowing stronger, or the very sensitivity 
of the hatchling
sensing my garden is: a non-garden
a wasteland
a fiction
a reduced green apparition
in the courtyard of the house.

When just like that, the bird flaps,
flits― drawing pixels like it arrived,
and disappears.

Then the house faces
the reality of its troublesome stay.
The common every day trappings
feel enlightened
as if its ephemeral presence
provided them with fleeting certainties
and endless senses.

Burned Memoirs

Burned Memoirs

I've kept them for so long
they smell like scandal.
One after another
they rhapsodized our days
with unimaginable desires,
forbidden wines
that never ripened
poured on the dregs.

Burned in the backyard
they no longer mean anything
only the coal of years
or perhaps your fruit, supposed nest
of tenderness, barely the blade
of a paper flag
blackened by polluted winds.

The photographs responsible
for the ferocity of earth
multiply inside my memory
like your skin once agitated
my breathe.

You're nothing, I'm nothing,
this never happened
and for the time being
the always treacherous memory
will be our dubious shore.

Thursday, July 13, 2017



He gave me
a handmade box

with floral motifs
and four voodoo pins

inside, four tiny children
nailed to my body.

He said: I'm yours
even if required to prick

the bolt between my legs
and that viscera, the heart.

Pessimistic butterflies flew.
I heard their flapping, and

in the shadows. The snap
of a non-existent tongue.

Point of No Return

A dart points at him
from the corner of its eye

his aftershave gives the afternoon
a senseless titillation.

A kiss hangs on a thread
of that invisible line drawn in the air

like the flight of an insect.
Can that faraway flash of the lips,

those bits of ardor in words
be called kisses?

Time passes beyond the two men,
the point zero of love.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Let’s Sail Together

Let’s Sail Together

There are footprints that persist
in the fertile land of silence

and oblivion capsizes
between luminescences

sunrise gathering
on the skin. It was mine,

the dance you denied.
There are dreams

that should never be tossed
into the current or doubt.

We will sail together. Our vessel
can never be sunk.

The Things We Draw on Maps

The Things We Draw on Maps

There are men who write
where men don’t speak

peaceful revolts
which overthrow bloodthirsty kings

business men who give undeserved gifts
music in the middle of a battlefield

strawberries in the woods
people who meet & understand each other

amazing triumphs of love with no strings attached
There are small precarious paradises

along the path we walk
on the shore of a wild monstrous sea

where it smells like grilled fish
& festive laughter

where we play without rules and balance
in unison on large red hammocks

where we embrace & lose track of time.

Where we forget with cheerful vehemence.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

The flood

The flood

stopped after nineteen days.
Men emerged from mud.

Built their houses
on vigorous trees

they later called
The Tree of Life.

That's how they worked.
We, chastened crows,

wait for the sun
to solidify the earth.



He arrived from Lebanon
ready to repair and sell carpets.
Gold and ruby fibers
put the mystery of time to rest.

He doesn't know
the twentieth century
will part like a blizzard,
same as every other.

When night barges in
without hands
ticking won't be necessary
and magical mango trees,
will shed the light 
of a lost recollection.

Blood says nothing
of his Maronite prayers
or of his grief in an old
Kobayat alley
where he scattered
his childhood.

But a longing for an Arabic
call to prayer is rare.

3 Poems up at The Basil O' Flaherty

Monday, July 10, 2017

Mr. Man's Man

Mr. Man’s Man

One day I'll know you’re not eternal
and that you don't exhale lavender,

that your sweat isn't honey. I'll learn
your hands don't shape my world,

your laughter doesn’t own my hours.
I'll undergo the loneliness of stars,

the impotence of the sea before the moon.
That’ll be the day my sunsets end.

Martini Barhop

Martini Barhop  

Did you like Waiting for Godot?                 I didn't get it. That guy, what was his                                                                        name?
Godot, baby, Godot.                                    Yeah him, he never showed up.

That's what it's all about. Most people don't understand. Tell your friends at the law firm that you saw it. It'll give you status.

            Let's get a drink.

It is two in the morning.                               You know I have insomnia.
That guy, why didn’t he show up?
Forget it, let's get a drink.

Sunday, July 09, 2017


Poem Up at AMARYLLIS: Piece of My Heart

Piece of My Heart

Ms. Joplin
your voice rips apart
my face, my tie― the mark
of all hanged men.

My remains roll on the ground
and the edge of your voice
blows my Monday into pieces.

I have the hunger of the employee
staring with contempt at the image
of his face in the glass door.

My hunger, a factory of anxieties,
its certainties, is convinced
that nothing will improve,
that this flagship raised during youth
will also sink. My last refuge
will have to be the skin
or the solitary bottle of whisky.

Janis, your voice is a knife
vibrating in the throat of pain.

But now

I have come to the place where
little masters live
and I hurry to annihilate the desire
of damning all to hell.

Saturday, July 08, 2017

sentry - Somonka (two tankas)


nowhere left to look
the rain cleared the way
no dream with open doors
      the only devotee  

outside, night strolls 
on its high heels
I lie in wait of myself
the hours trip 
on what I never say

Spring Birth

Spring Birth

Born in March,
I was never baptized, my parents
decided I should decide for myself.
Grew up in a Wesleyan school.
I have recited Our Father Who
so many times I'm dumb. I don't miss 
the uniform, the ties, or the chemistry teacher.
Now I almost never pray.

I liked not being popular.
But I've had more than five good friends.
Raised in an exclusive neighborhood
of an inclusive city on rice-beans
and pork chops. The first grandchild,
nephew, son. I was, as expected, 

My grandfather was a poet and a journalist.
Grandma hid his manuscripts, 
but I read his poems in secret.
Enjoyed my family, 
although I told them little of my life.

Collected the songs of Felipe Pirela.
Discovered love at twenty, wept for the love 
at twenty-six, confused it with lust 
and transformed it into 
a good many farewells at forty.

True, the best shags are not 
those one-night stands.

Friday, July 07, 2017

Poem Up at Door is a Jar Magazine

Poem Up at Excavation lit journal

Poem Up at Excavation Lit journal, Toilets, I'm so glad this poem finally got published.

Wednesday, July 05, 2017

PIN Quarterly Journal just published two of my poems. This is a Nigerian literary journal and I love it!

PIN Quarterly Journal just published two of my poems. This is a Nigerian publication, and I love it!

The poems are: Bare Embers, a gay erotica poem ( breaking ground, since I hear there is a 14 year prison sentence for being gay in Nigeria)
and There Were Windy Street, an anti-Syrian war poem dedicated to the Syrian children.

Monday, July 03, 2017

Canine shadow

Canine shadow

bleeding gargoyles      canine pluslachrymal
amid bastard                contraplayful rubs
of my very absent       margins
Nymphomaniac hawk             with ululation hounding
predream                     hymens.
Viable delucid             canine shadow penumbra
riddled by interrogating          red harpoon cocks,
deep gray ivy              cockeyed weary guest
inside the wrong         apartment.

Poem Up at Psaltery & Lyre

Poem Up at Psaltery & Lyre



Urban Apparition

He emerged
from the underground,
or was it the sky?
Injured by the noise,
motionless, silent,
badly wounded.
Kneeling between
the afternoon
& the inevitable,
veins attached
to horror, the asphalt.
Holy eyes sagging,
completely naked
almost blue, that’s
how white he was.
His bare skin
a nectar petal,
a bipanel chest
of soft full moon,
such echo of my echo,
fuck beats and tides.
Give me your balaa.

*balaa - means “calamity/distress/trial/misfortune” in English



I'm still alone, following myself
& the following,
in another self-engrossed
empty mud pile
on neurdead paths.
Opium hours, chase me
with so many other beautiful seashells 
& erocrazy conchs, 
fleeting deaths, absent memories,
other greasy oozes, constructs that oppose me
while I follow myself & the following,
superfollow myself
from one end to the other
ardently, without being with myself
or the other.

Sunday, July 02, 2017

Poem Up at PPP (Poetry Poetics Pleasure) Ezine

Poem Up at PPP Ezine Vol. 1 



Tired? Yes, I'm tired of two lips,
twenty fingers, & don't know
how many words. Of fragmented
grayish memories.

Worn-out of this old
modest skeleton so chaste
that when it undresses
I won't know if they're the same
bones used while living.

Drained of lacking feelers,
of not having one eye
on each shoulder blade
& an authentic cheerful tail.
Of this degenerate
hypocritical little ass.

But above all,
weary of being with myself
when the dream ends.
Me, with the same nose and legs
like I don't want to wait for the shoal
in my beach complexion,
offering the dew two magnolia breasts,
caressing earth with my caterpillar belly.

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