Curanga Pie Blues

I was conceived in the cold heat
Of the late stage Anthropocene.

My mother’s milk was curanga pie.

I am a born again pleonasm—
Aphasic—ecstatic in static,
Mendicant in white noise.

I am obscenely petulant,
Vaguely touched,
Piqued & hot
With fleas.

Endless
Not.

What I’m Reading:

War is its own peace. The sea its own shore.
These temporary reassurances
Beneath the moon, deciphering old code
Re-sent from satellites smearing deep space:

The night, the night, the night, the night, the night.
There are those things never done nor begun,
But glimpsed by the poem of experience

— Rowan Ricardo Phillips / “MMXXVI”