I had the passion 
but not the stamina
nor the discipline, 
no one knew how
to discipline me so 
they just let me be,

Let me play along,
let me think I was
somebody, I could
be somebody, even
without the no-how.

Never cared one bit 
when my bow didn’t
match the rest of the 
orchestra, I could get 
their notes right but 
always a little beyond,

sawing my bow across
the strings, cuttin it up
even if I wasn’t valuable
even if I lacked respect
for rules of European
thought and composure.

A crescendo of trying
to be somebody,
a decrescendo of trying 
to belong, I played along
o yes, I play along. 

 

Mosquitoland

What’s left behind
Is sometimes worse
Than the taking
 
I’ve gotten over
The ick factor
 
If flying mamas
Need a dab of
Blood for eggs
 
Their lives
Short and unfair
Go for it
 
Bite me
You deserve it
 
Live as long as u can
Idc
 
The lineage of
Proboscis
Soaks the rays
 
Ok
That’s kinda cool
Actually
 
DNA joining all
Sorts of creatures
In mothership bods
 
Traveling through
An even larger
Cultural bod(ies)
 
Hey yeah I know
Diseases are passed
Yes yes I know
 
It’s a drag
When a lack of
Imagination
Invites tiny welts
 
But I’ll itch you
In a distracted way
And shove off
 
But like I said
Earlier 
 
It’s a passive act
Of sustaining some
Kind of life
 
When the bites
We leave behind
 
Take 1000+ years
To dismantle

Related Poems

Landscape

Pleasure is black.

I no longer imagine

        where my body
        stops or begins.

Skin transparent.
Face speckled

by the spit
of several centuries.

All the borders stare at the same fires.

Oh Mamere,

        I'm sorry.

Here I am.

Tries the Grammar of the Arabic to Fit the Language the English

oh teita, the language the english no it understand tongue of you. and no can i
i feed you these the morsels from mouth of me. language of me the arabic half-
chewed. oh teita, let me i try and i fail to fit languages of us in each other.

seen i face of you split open by riot laughter. the spit it falls without grace from
lips of you thins. complexion of you light; skin of you wrinkled but healthy;
flecks olive they try to jump from folds of the corners of the eyes of you. can i
find in the mirror eyelids of you the heavy. eyelashes of you. the echo of the
nose of you. sometimes, i split open face of me with spoon, tool blunt &
wrong. i want from you for you to bleed from in me into the sink, so that can i i
ask these the questions sprinkled you in lungs of me. i cough out them, always
in the time the wrong. i laugh. soil of the grave falls it without grace from lips
of me.

Music from Childhood

You grow up hearing two languages. Neither fits your fits
Your mother informs you “moon” means “window to another world.”

You begin to hear words mourn the sounds buried inside their mouths
A row of yellow windows and a painting of them

Your mother informs you “moon” means “window to another world.”
You decide it is better to step back and sit in the shadows

A row of yellow windows and a painting of them
Someone said you can see a blue pagoda or a red rocket ship

You decide it is better to step back and sit in the shadows
Is it because you saw a black asteroid fly past your window

Someone said you can see a blue pagoda or a red rocket ship
I tried to follow in your footsteps, but they turned to water

Is it because I saw a black asteroid fly past my window
The air hums—a circus performer riding a bicycle towards the ceiling

I tried to follow in your footsteps, but they turned to water
The town has started sinking back into its commercial

The air hums—a circus performer riding a bicycle towards the ceiling
You grow up hearing two languages. Neither fits your fits

The town has started sinking back into its commercial
You begin to hear words mourn the sounds buried inside their mouths