poem: fire water

hello local burned out millenium

i don’t like

the way you look like me in the mirror, the way your

indian eyes glow red in the city, the red urban

city coming out of me, when

I sit by

the highway, the cynical parts of the world cut

hard into my thighs and my old-legacy eyes,

given to me by my mother, the mother who

left, who told me that I have the eyes of a fox or

a lizard. like i am not yet human,

even for being wrapped up in her for nine months.

like even that

was not enough to bleed the animal out.


where are you going? they ask. where are

you going? but I only know that I am going around,

like the earth is round, like the wet high-rise of my eyeball

is round: when I spit it into my palms

in the morning,

before brushing my teeth but after cutting out

the old wrist arteries and wiring

new ones inside. i am just like that, not ending,

just existing, the little lighter flame that sputters and sputters

but never starts never


that is me. there i am.

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