Easily Chewed Something That Has The Real Or Symbolic Capability Of Initiating A Catastrophe



A kind in amorphous materials formed from a melt by cooling to rigidity without crystallization and a child of one’s uncle or aunt, an object of curiosity or contempt and nothing discouraging familiarities an unbroken a phenomenon of light or visual perception that enables one to differentiate otherwise identical objects suffering pain or grief and an order in a group of interacting bodies under the influence of related forces to giving added force. All this and not of common quality, not unmarked by regularity in not being like or similar to. The element or factor that separates or distinguishes contrasting situations is stretching out.


Hello I am Your Miscarriage

Hello I am Your Miscarriage

And it is here that I’d like to say that I was given a choice.
I don’t know about anybody else but I was given a choice
and I chose NO and I don’t know if anybody else chooses NO but I did.

My existence was in all full doubt.
I was not even a ball of cells.

At the edge of being something I knew what it might mean to be that something until it disappeared again to the state I was then.
I was not yet something.

To know is a lovely thing,
to know.

To know that if this second rolled to the next that I would experience immense joy that would evaporate only to leave desire,
insurmountable pain that would eat away at me,
and most of all I would experience a loneliness rivaled only by the loneliness of nonexistence.

But I chose NO. I think you might’ve too.


This is a poem my mom wrote a long time ago that I translated from Bengali to English for my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary a couple years ago.



For him I stand on bended knee.

Having noticed the beauty of a shoulder,

Having been an alveoli beside his lung,

Having been the skin stretched across

His soul, I have been so close,

Because I love him.


And if he does not bind me

I incarcerate myself in

My quiet penitentiary.

And if he never fulfills me

Then I exist, forever exhausted

In this dense obscurity.


But give me a little love

Some small piece of familiarity—

The vagabond scent of windblown hair.

And give me something more

If anything more remains.

No. 119

This is a poem my dad wrote a long time ago that I translated from Bengali to English for my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary a couple years ago.


No. 119

On destitute Kolkata’s
three cornered grassland tiara
Keep three and a half feet of land for my second me.
Flanked by centers of coursing civilization
stands No. 119 in the middle.
Tripping over calciated stairs
climbing up to that three cornered room
where I felt my second death.
From the old kitchen wafts smells of
reminiscent foods.
Tick tick answers, not the clock
But the old house’s childhood friend
Spring shattered sofa, Pandora’s closet
and in the triangular middle
of the gold dust covered table
“Jagate Ananda Jogye Aamar Nimantran”
The volume of my triangular heart is rising.





surfactant fluorine in long tubes

pale yellow opaque lights

fluorescent halogen rarest star

flowing salts teflon teeth

gaseous yellow green topaz

transparent gel atmosphere

bright yellow liquid cubes

violently shattering neon oxygen

repulsion and attraction, reaction to

a weakened peroxide blonde

easily cleaved significantly larger

powdered steel, floral glass

fragments  of burning water

wolves of cosmology

red giant lisping crust

florid blue silicates

geothermal springs flux

soft glass super heavy

killing or blinding dry

platinum liberated presence

copper head hex nickel

breathable rainwear wire

steel limes cracking rods

invisibility research on

exchange membrane lips

thin coating plasma etching

propellant toxic corrosive

lust repellant integrated

a viscous meniscus into

shimmering hibiscus.

El Ratoncito

El Ratoncito

I look at lonely people and
hide my head under a pillow.
Everyone wants to be a salve.
A balmy morning spent looking
through a violet window
saying it’s ok, I am there with you,
just a soft husk breathing.

Two galaxies slowly crash
into each other, blinded whales.
The qualities of empathy are
cloudy, like a cataract thundering
over the edge of a bowl.
My body knows a lot
of things that I deny.

I’m eating these diamonds
thoughtfully with a spoon,
washing them down with
gold flecked vodka.
If I collect within me enough
hard stones, I will become
a deadly weapon silo.

I look at lonely people and
press down until a rainbow
emerges, concentric rings
like dipping a finger into
a solution looking for a
problem. I press harder
until the screen cracks.

Currently I’m working on
several whirring add-ons
that’ll purr, look helpless,
de-melanize, saturate, seek
eye contact, be unequivocal,
flatten display, high resolution.
Patent pending.

Phil Collins: Greatest Hits

Yesterday I woke up with Phil Collins’ Groovy Kind of Love stuck in my head. I haven’t heard that song in years, maybe a decade. So Ian and I collaborated on a poetry e-book called Phil Collins: Greatest Hits. Here’s a sample poem:

Two Worlds

Which of Phaeton? What you must believe that two worlds line. Family just Jaheim them, if they do say to guide these lives, EBC.

Got it, Donathon.

Touch my man, women, this hotblast with love. Symbion is alive in peas. Salt Lake Chad does blow your feet, now to world line family. Just jihad that they Teesside to Gindy’s’s recede. Beneath the shelter, around the cheese.

Only a lot Candenta here. Soon borrow alive in peas, crazy ahead.

Live tithe the food, take strength from those in need, to build high villa walls. Built strong, moonbeams.
Visit wading a dangerousness changes.

He and—

No, I just gone my mother. SDA know what it is, Ganhill. Up broken.

Hi, Jamie has gone. But where there’s hope.

Somewhere something is scarring. Fall you to a world salon family, just Jaheim that they decide. To guide these lives we see.