Slowly, my fate is changing

The humble earth path before me
sings and paves itself; shining
yellow bricks falling from the sky
feel the intricate gravitational shift
the blossom of reality with
every step that I take–

a deep breath
all of a sudden there is something
to be born from the air,
slowly, the world is
slowly alive, slowly

Slowly, my fate is changing


To Catch a Shooting Star

I sit, at the end of its trajectory,
weaving patience into webs and
inspirational speeches;
I sit, and with the corner of my eye,
I catch a glimmer of its light,
so mischievous a wink
and so mighty a destiny,
that each breath feels
like a separate existence
each heartbeat a passing
and birthing of an entire universe

is an opportunity of a lifetime
worthy of a thousand seizings–
and I stand, at the end of its trajectory,
eyes-open, feet-steady, grip-ready,


a bird shits on my head

a bird shits on my head
trying to see if I give a damn
as if avian feces is enough
to rain on my parade;

the truth of the matter is
the world always wants to
fuck you without a condom
until you are pregnant
with its bastard child;

goddamn son of a fate
the universal consequence
of unprotected screwing is that
you live with its little baby grin
for the rest of your life

but alas
what is life but a few seconds of friction
a few bumps, a few grunts, a few cries?
you ride that life and rock it
like a boat, you suck it up,
you spit it right back in its face

because when life gives you shit,
don’t you dare give a shit in return
because why make life even shittier
by adding to its shit?

so fuck it
fuck life, fuck the world
just fuck it and
and make the best
the fucking best of it all

P.S. “a few seconds of friction” is a phrase I borrowed from Barney’s Version, by Mordecai Richler. It’s awesome.


words, words, words upon eyelids,
harsh words like a child’s innocent hand;
the unintentional malice
delicate in its God-like strength,
unleashing itself unto the wings of

a butterfly
wandered into grasping hands,
caught, halved, unhinged, unnamed,
squirming beneath

this sordid mess
what yet remained in the corners
of the tarnished soul? split
with blood unseen, truths unwhispered;
what is reality but battered
conscience, putrid spit
between treacherous teeth?

to be or not to be, that
is the question: to die, to sleep,
perchance to dream—lost!

lost, he was—trapped,
in a moment, in a daze, a heartache

butterfly effect

Most of the time

something that is detrimentally cosmic

such as the wrath of God,

the so-called karma,

the measure of one’s fate or

shit-out-of-luck situations,

is the result of a dishonest word

from someone you trust.

The Scarecrow

When the night fell, the fireflies always came

to irradiate their sympathies softly

onto his stuffed cheek—the face with a sewn

expression, an emotion chosen for him upon

his birth, a pronounced smile so real that

he nearly believed in it, believed in joy.


Cursed—by immobility and an immutable

durability—he closed his eyes and dreamed

through the years in silence, living a quiet

rustic life as a functional spectacle

on a golden field. Sometimes he dreamed

of laughing winds and droning cicadas and

songs he could not name. Sometimes a new shirt

unpecked by birds and not drenched in rain.


But mostly he dreamed of the sparklers

that children held on a midsummer night

tiny, eldritch explosions that fascinated him so.

He dreamed of touching those miniature flames,

his illusionary hands pulling them close to his face

He dreamed of stitches coming loose and falling

off from the corners of his mouth and he dreamed

of weeping with his weathered, button eyes closed

as well as the salty taste of tears

on the tip of his tongue.