oftentimes
i find my voice
not to my liking
the sound of it
...
soaked in her
hormonal rage
acid mouth and toxic
deliverance
...
and now
as i ready myself
to face my death
my enemy stands
...
it's a warm sunday night
in puerto rico
and my father likes to
rub that in
...
she sat there
with her hands piled
in carefully arranged
origami prayer folds
...
dice thrown from rough hands
karma decided from this:
the sound of a cup
...
in the dull
dusk of
winter
i sit and watch
...
here's the thing
i've never considered
myself a poet
...
i watch
the cockroach
cross the floor
in appreciation
...