bring out ‘yer dead…


Violet Bathroom Dictator

He is the violet
Bathroom dictator; King of the plastered
Hairspray combover.

He is fall
October turning chill at 10:09 p.m.; A smoldering
Ruin, abandoned house burnt.

He is tornadic
Aftermath, roiling clouds receding;
Waxing solar eclipse.

He is a prickly
Brown weed foisted into the wind;
Injured porcupine.

He is a stagnant
Tidal pool; A sargassum-clogged beach
After man o’ war arrive.

He is a rusted
’74 green Impala; A worn
Holy-soled shoe.

He is a stillborn
Merengue; A ridgeless guiro
Missing its rhythm stick.

He is a bruised
Rotting Mango – Acrid
Espresso in the Little Havana heat.


“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

— Anne Lamott

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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