in the land of healthcare and
a flag oddly similar to puerto rico
there have been attacks, sly
maneuvers near the embassy.

sonic sounds blasting the ears
of diplomats; eardrums shattering
like walls under the force of cranes;
such drama! an attack so subtle
one could not accuse an island of
it, as it can't even be seen.

but, it might just be crickets,
such drama, such disappointment.

why does love always
feel like a battlefield. a
battlefield. a battlefield.
a friend of a brother once said,
biting his tongue and
chewing his cheek.

          hand glued to his mandible
          head tilted like a sinking ship
          taking in its final breath, huuuuaaaaa
          and before it sinks in
          a miraculous cacophony;; it
          exhales, aaaaaaaahh.

why do we stop, when we can
start, i asked Sartre, who
may have responded in a
tongue i can’t taste.

i’m amazed. love
and swords, such imagery!
and repetition like cupids’
arrows fired from each side
of such silly, important warfare.

i’m glad-
in this battlefield. battlefield
battlefield, i’m not fighting a
battle, or settling a skirmish;
i’ve sat down with the blonde haired
soldiers (though my comrades
shake brown locks), and we’ve
begun to play soccer and drink
in the name of conflict.

my love told me the sonnet i wrote
for her was lovely.

but it only could be that way because
of her(love).

there is no art without a muse, and i
suppose there is no love
ly poetry without a love.

it was like i saw her face
for the first time.

she sat across from me
back straight as a board
even though there were
no nuns around to
pull her ear and tell her
to sit straighter.

im glad she's her.

don't be loud in libraries.


i sympathize with one
of them, their leg hurts, so i guess
it is important the world knows.

one of them, i'm not sure, and the other-
the same. i am still sure one of them is in pain,
and, not to be a herald of demise, but
i don't need to know your leg hurts. the doctor
does.

it also doesn't help you are singing in a place
where poets sit, doing nothing as we always
do. so please, let me do nothing as usual
without the disturbance of your pain or your
early christmas singing.

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent

sloppy joe, why do you keep
yelling when you cross the road? your
meat keeps falling from your
sides and i swear you are beginning

to scare the neighbors. the dogs keep
chasing you, yet you never seem to care
about those hounds and terriers. self-
preservation (though you are a sandwich,

and a quite enjoyable one at that) seems like it
should be an instinct which someone as
tasty as yourself should have. you never seem
to worry about those massive hands reaching

out to bite into you and taste your
guts and innards, and all the sauce in between
them; but for some reason, i'm beginning to think
we should all be as relaxed as you,

sloppy joe. even though maybe we should
be more cautious about how our grease
gets all over everywhere. however other than
the grease we should still be like sloppy joe.