like the surging women parted and poured on the street, I 
followed the blue dress lady, step by step

until she stopped in front of silver night and was annexed. 
I am aware of myself making countless mistakes. 

The lousiest voices come in with Feng Shui, 
mightmares and renown. 

The color of my face (in the States) isn’t
just my eyes. I hope the way 

you educated me was a universal disaster. The film
of my eyes is another repetitive poem you read. No 

color represents neon. The season of my face
is overcooked and irrelevant. Do not catch them 

at your gathering table.    
teeny, somber 

index nails.  Crashed ambience to an unfolded 
Firefly. Sunburned petals, I send a box of 

pastels, you summon the God of 

installation. You, too need to 
be someone else and ghastly the 
same.