Tag Archives: Sint Maarten Sonnets

“You have to comb the infield to do it,”that’s what the colonizer told the men;What a strange position, from which I sit!I maintain the interests of the oxen:Fields, segadors, nationhoods under lights, with flies wafting on high and dreams on low;… Continue reading →

Metallic shards flood your senses tonight for the last time, maybe ever, maybe forever. It’s hard to say which is right, between the left hook and the meat cleaver: The spin on your mouthpiece is fierce like shards, scraping the pink toes of giant… Continue reading →

My memories of blindness are immense like the loss of the little ants I’d track or the specific taste of brown mouth rinse – fresh near-vomit every night, off the rack: I never thought I’d think clearly again, but the monotonous rain has spoken, b… Continue reading →

Be careful because control is a maze that bores intruders into a raw lull, reducing their worldliness to a phase in a bloody sojourn to spite the Bull: Meaning lacks finishing from loose grammars, and the webs they spin are more like cocoons— ridi… Continue reading →

If sleep evades me, then I’ll stay awake and dream of the utensils I once used to pick and poke the peaks and pikes I’d make out of flush air to feed my blood suffused: Little teaspoons you could wash with a wish, and two-pronged forks that you ga… Continue reading →

Amongst the hollow shades dressed in ash, blue, the moon hangs down like a thirsty molar, waiting to pounce on the gelatin glue that coheres in dead cow bones’ ice collar: No one’s there to hear it but the plague, blue as the darkest day floats ab… Continue reading →

Plastic air ducts release the sibylline tension that leads to crows’ feet on the eye, blanketing the space like old nicotine in the pre-ban eras of the bar-sky: That is, the gray horizon is stunted, boxed in by the wooden musculature of ashen live… Continue reading →

The turquoise blue scales of a crocodile so immense that it stretches beyond swells arches its chopped back an infinite while, as the sands turn themselves into seashells: That is below. Above, the bugs flock in sparks, reversed, attacking the bul… Continue reading →

The rain has softened into fresh linen, but these bloodshot eyes do still remember, on this island of goats, fruit and venom, in this month six months before December: The porch was on fire, the hammock singed down, and the lovely light green almo… Continue reading →

As the steel rain falls in deafening sheets,I can reflect on the panoramaof sand and lizards and children and streetswashed over by the goats’ glaze and drama:High, with language washing around bleached teeth, and angry kicks missing their shadows… Continue reading →