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i'm not mila jovovich, you know
you know?
it's not post-anything when I do it, more like
simul-abstractionism
in person, i would have been long interrupted
auto-eroticism sounds like a luxury
what transpired in Ljubljana would have underwhelmed you
and yet I've a shrine of it in my continuum
so what are we to do

latin

fire a
flare into the coliseums of yore
we don't drink the water of foreign
lands so we
suffocate on thicker things
in a hot jaded garden
under bridge in singapore with
your own artistry
and plenty of rusted screws
i say, repentantly
what's mine is yours so i can
live with my own crime
which, again, i've borrowed

post "the" fantasy

i found a lot of poetry in
your facebook album titles
suppose that's for
better and for worse
suppose you're an answer
anyway

magic

uncle rudy washes his clothes
in the basin, but not always
sometimes i
sneak a handful of flour into the pocket
of his jacket and wait for
the noise
when he is away at the river
i let all of the china out
of the cupboard, checking
carefully for snakes
I pull the tablecloth from underneath
his bed, checking not so
carefully for monsters
the candles i stole from the
monastery go onto errant nails
poking through
the slats of wood and ratty
cloth, both
in the bureau there is a picture of
my mother and also a meaty, mean
tarantula - but - i am
not the one who needs saving