Tuesday, September 10, 2013


glistening and shimmering liquid hues 
of amber, green, and a translucence
that we mistakenly call blue, but is something else entirely.
the acidulous liquid bites the barren tongue, dry as sand.
It stings the fingernail-thin paper-cut on the desert tongue's tip.
The shining nectar quenches and tantalizes. 
A coquette whose teasing only whets desire.

flowing thickly through veins of 37 degrees celsius,
slows and chills,
a prisoner in a refrigerator of air-conditioning.
Outside, the atmosphere is close and tropic, sultry and oppressive.
Inside, the blood tingles in the icy freeze-dried air.
Trapped between the clay oven of the elements
and the frigid engineering marvel of man.

covered by a thin layer of ice in the bottle.
the nose and her warm breath erode the miniature arctic seascape
the ice sheet melts into the pure, cold ocean
the smallest of the polar seas,
1.5 liters of relief
icebergs float, rapidly shrinking in the tropic heat.

growing in the sub-equatorial dark
inspires a dance, as flowers sway in the velvet heat of night,
shaking their misty petals
attempting to rid themselves of the rude intruder.
a surge of quicksilver runs down the trunk of the tree
from flowery canopy to earth-encrusted root, she quakes.
she burns with restlessness.

a breeze 
flies through the alley way and rustles the laundry,
it takes with it several small beads of congealed sweat, 
before others rise to take their place.
it rustles through the grass of the football--
not American, but FIFA football-- field,
and lifts a bit of coolness from the thousandth blade of grass,
it slices through the dense oven air 
like a paper edge through epidermis.

the limits of my body come as a surprise.
a shock.
As my heart stops beating loudly, I am able to listen.
to the sound of my lungs inhaling and expelling air.
but how small a mass they are!
And how insignificant a cubic meter of air they expel.
I feel the pressure of my diaphragm pushing down on my stomach.
my abdominal cavity feels over-populated and claustrophobic for a moment.
the muscles in my calves tense, and I feel the skin move with them.
tight. restricted.
I feel my feet on the carpet.
There is so much more carpet than foot.
I want to laugh at the infinitesimally minuscule portion of the universe my body claims.
my imagination jolts, as it did not previously notice how defined his owner's limits are.
how disappointing.


fresh and clean, for now--before the next dive into the Nutella jar,
until the next splash of bike grease on my knuckles,
until the next time I feed Moni,
until the next time I find an inevitable crust of dirt underneath my nails.
until I learn to stop picking my hangnails.
until the next time I find them clasped in someone else's.

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