do you know

the unluckiest man in the world ?

you’ll learn something if you

let the door hush closed

 

set yourself down cause

here the stories are gonna

smell like sugared smoke,

and the wet sun stares

 

watch these tell-tale half-moons

smile from skin corners

as wheels make u’s

along the bright-hot streets

 

if you look real close

those lamppost heads gonna

arch up in grins

while the grass explodes green

 

barely covers roots who

stretch their fingers wide

cracking cement with

petrified muscle

 

my textured conversation

is gonna rub

some syllables

on your ears, cause

 

a poet from my country

once said

roughly translated

i have such bad luck

that if i were to open

a funeral home,

people would stop dying

 

but every time i see

a funeral home too empty

i think about wet homes

sticking out their chins

 

and my teeth curve up

in a thankyou,you’reright.