On

 On

On a certain level,
I’m trying to die. 
It’s not exactly 
Intentional. I
Just hate living 
In this beautiful 
Murderous
World, so much. 
Ignore Dickinson,
Wollstonecraft,
Morrison, Baldwin,
Whitman, and Mill,
And all the great minds
That populate
Our Anglo-
American damage. 
God forbid, we should 
Learn something. 
Stay silent, angry,
And alone. 
What are we living
For anymore? I
Really don’t know.

Once

Once

Once , while
Trying to sleep,
Not in this
Country, but
In another 
Country, a
Scorpion 
Arrogantly
Crawled acros
My arm, before 
Arrointing 
Itself off my
Wrist at the
End. It is
The most
Exhirating 
Thing that has
Ever happened 
To me. Full 
Stop.

ON IKAROS

ON IKAROS

for Tammy

Child of a jealous,
Brilliant, arrogant,
Murderous parent,
The Leonardo of
Athens and Krete,
The inventor of
Everything important
Anywhere, ever, imprisoned 
With that famous
Father atop a tower,
Atop the Minoan 
Civilization that 
Same exiled dad
Had built with 
A wile and guile
Greater than crafty 
Odysseos would ever
Muster; his flawed
Parent made wings
Of ordinary things:
Bird feathers, bees’s
Wax, ingenuity,
Desperation, freedom,
Yearning, love;
And so they flew
Away into a kind

Of an expectation,
But the child was headstrong,
Like his parent, and
Exhilarated by flight,
As though he were a 
God, flew higher and
Higher, until you could 
No longer hear his
Father‘s horrified 
Cries to stop. Great Helios,
In his fiery chariot,
Looked down in
Disappointment, as
Waxen wings melted
Under the heat
Of his blazing gaze,
And Ikaros plummeted 
To splash into the
Wine dark Aegean,
As Bruegel foretold.