Illustrations by Monta Lū Lapiņa

Sidewalk Antigone

At the crossing there ruled a specist hegemony. Limbs like


whiffed near the little sparrow’s head. She waddled around those wrecking balls of meat. And next to her was a clump.

More rot than bird, tire tracks were now its wings.  So brutal, the inverse of a bird, unintended for kin or man.

As feet almost squashed her,

she kissed the leftovers of the feather forehead. The little bird then flew, ending the funeral in a stampede. I never did

find out

Do birds cry?


It is a temporal
apple worm sort of fate, that
is no more contingent than a granite lake.
It’s tail from my 9-5 jest, its fangs
In my present pips.

Making of a huntsman

Oh my tree
blossom child, winter wave-like
eyeshadows and equally
cold stares. Silently

screaming with a closed
mouth. Who ghosts
trough out alone.  Do not 

waste your lungs
to ponder. Wolfs of
now might starve with summer, but

the hounds of old will
continue to hunt.  Alas
not sap drop of pitty

do you deserve. You in
cherry cyanide light who
washes in tears of sugar.

The lycans will at last
tear your ephemeral skin. And you’ll
learn to slay beasts like man was meant to

September 15, 2019

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