Photo by Timothy Ries on Unsplash

a severed head

maggots oozing pearly whites in their own special sweet-sour sauce (the day I chewed a fly in my Campbell’s Alphabet Soup)

tilapia’s mouth opening on little tiny gray-haired caviar

in one week’s time, a small orchard of U-Pick raspberries awaits before the children go back to school

this dream, mottled with traces of time, where it’s always early morning, the gauzy sore that never quite heals in my early childhood after I fell off a cliff and lay drowned underneath liquid layers of orange soda

my father called her a “cunt”

mother cursed in her ghetto-Korean, her own ball and chain staring, petulant, jagged razor sharp from the corner of our paper-thin room close to the hole I used to shit in outside

where am I now, and should I stay inside this endless gig at the 24-hour Irish marketplace waiting for the gypsy to play? the coffee here is always bracing hot, cream in clouds above the lip of my dishwasher-stained cup

I can’t forget the tilapia with the eggs, his whispery notes playing havoc with my memories



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