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my face is crooked she said

my face is crooked


my face is crooked, you said

and picked up a crooked smile and gave it

to me

like a keychain.

if it would ve been the tiniest bit less crooked,

I d not be talking to that

stupid ugly person.

I d be precisely elsewhere,

and that s unbearable like your

heater suddenly going on full

blast in the middle of the sizzling summer.

so stay here, crooked,

in as much as the distance between us should never exceed

that of mozzarella stretching between two penne before

breaking point.

tramp stamp my mouth, iubito,

vampires can t/ won t chomp on their own

necks.

I ve never said this to anyone.

but I more often than not dance with you in my head. I do, I.. your waist is at my kneels level, yet you’re always taller and more talented than me, and we dance to prokofiev and Jackson, two different songs in our earbuds, but somehow always end up crying because of how graceful we are.

I think the reason I fantasize like this is it might be my way of subconsciously thanking you for stopping me from always running from myself up and down 5th ave.

I am bad. bad, bad, bad.

I need you to spank my soul back

into your youth

fullness. but I implore you, from the bosom of your heels, to teach me how

to stop acting

like a stupid brat and grow the fuck up already

In fourth grade I used to sprint home from school

Every single day panting

Finish my homework

And then wait on the front bench for Raluca

To get home from school

Such a high

Seven second lasting as she passed florally

(Not even a wave)

Whole Dalis worming, consummated to ashes in my

Minuscule pit, heart drum & bass

For entire prolonged minutes after she passed, my infantile

Beatrice, leaving me clueless

Until the next day same place same time

Raluca is married today, things didn't really work out that well between

Me and her,

But that s ok, because since then,

I d never felt anything like

you. I want to have your asian babies.your Asian babies want to have

Me.

Admitting to falling in love with someone

In a love poem like this and putting it so

Coarsely, nonmetaphorically, poems don't talk like this

Que tanto haces, Wei? Ismail the brunchly guatemalan chef at Piccoli Trattoria asks with various curiosity when he sees me writing about you, whom I hate so profoundly for

teaching me how to forgive, you nightmarish spread,

you poisoned floss, you swallowed howl, you unfarted fart, you MSG OD, you hive breaking into hives,

why

did you have to do that? why why why why why why why why?

is it because your face is crooked?

is it because I don't dance?

Is it because waking up next to you is the only time I ever slept?

Is it because you are watching your figure?

Is it because of the god that makes yogurt freeze for you?

Is it for the sake of all the nights, afternoons, oh and mornings we went crosseyed from playing the beast with two backs?

I thank you either way.

I'm going to take the sins of your father

down to the pond,

and send them off like viking flames,

like snails on blades,

like fireworks inside a soccer ball,

like that one time you made Romanian cocoa bread.

All our faces are crooked,

from straining to see right,

from flinching because of the

squirrel that runs past us

2016 mi/h

and is scared of us shitlesser

than we are of it.


04 23 15

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