The following is a selection of poems from the chapbook The Quasi-Professional Relationship Between P and Q.


Span physical obstacles and embrace. Brycg brugjō providing passage. Son of large Chinese wooden constructions at the time of the Warring States. Son of the Zhaozhou Bridge, built from 595 to 605 AD during the Sui Dynasty. This bridge is also historically significant as it is the world's oldest open-spandrel stone segmental arch bridge. Ours is significant because of sleepless nights. A cantilever bridge built using cantilevers—horizontal beams supported on only one end. Constructed using much the same materials & techniques as beam bridges. Silent. Waiting. Always staring.  

Cats of Istanbul

Istanbul modern smell of coffee of an Ali Pasa Camii
of cats that break through beans and fair light bulbs
Turn to your left and you’re in Bushwick reading
the call to prayer brings the Golden Horn
Stretch your arms little cat
Stretch your arms and reach maybe a fish barbecue
or a gluten free crepe with a soy latte -- 
the definition of global hip trending 

Trending cats bobworth keep walking in the dark
your temporary steps may disappear with
contemporary lights of a bazaar
this is temporary not contemporary
you tell me and walk away 

What if I was a cat called Komodor? Follow you
through the ceiling and look at the lights dancing
a mambo guajiro without knowing what happens if
we go to your place happy and stumble with people
The park knolls everywhere with a cemetery
stay away erratic boulder winking through
the broom of branches almost silent 

People and stones silent
The drunkard of words -- another cat-- jumps an alley
there is no need to worry if you fall like him the fracture
will go as it comes easy as the change stutters with the rocks
And if you’re rescued alive from an underground disgrace
after catching some spoiled fish from the channel
curse the authorities that stop you from believing in love
that blackmailed you with free food
in exchange for your liquor and heart
Rain will fall that day at night with
the eternity of a bird speaking non stop sound
Falling through the atmosphere on the hard ground
with your cold wind shadow changing the morning sky

Scroll down to read

Low-lit room
all muddled up, a blanket on top
two am buzz of the ac unit
breaking the monotony of the night
or the morning

One last
victorious and bitter
minute in this universe
of tactile untouchable faces
tactile untouchable lines
no verse

A battle
a daily task riding across
the kingdom
The tyranny of the scroll down
down and deep flat
hours of stares

When time itself has finally
consumed you
with sleep and agonies
the ritual certainly will not be done
You’re a captive of unrestrained tyrants
of sound clouds, 
and an Angels in America scene —the best
thing ever with hearts and what the fucks 

Scroll down final memories and bad jokes
scored against breaking spring
in Greenwich Village
watching a variety of daily shows.

Scroll down the anxiety of a Buzz Feed quiz
Are you normal? Happy
birthday unfamiliar friend
said no one ever
Love is official on a nowhere bound
with a Franco style selfie

Raise your eyes and take it all in
A memory is triggered and then extinguished
by cats using toilets
and the gaze of lovers mediated
through a segmented display of glyphs
and mirror walled conversations
of words, semi-words — the vanity of this tireless drive

Quite suddenly travel
to hyper real evenings
with smells — but how come if smelling is something
you did only in the past
You wonder through the landscape
a face is all you care about
the buzz of the A C and the warmth of the blankets
is scarcely real

The light is delirious and
you scroll down not quite remembering why you wrote
‘I had a great night’
Every single thing, a word
in a language that someone or something writes
a never ending scribble
the history of the present and the recent past
embrace on a throwback Thursday 

Create a better version
of yourself, post it, don’t care
smooth down your angularities and pains
with the magic of likes

Begin to fear scrolling down
its unworthiness plunges deep in a dream of your own
Behind each name lies that which has no name
Your nameless shadow stares  
at the oleophobic coat of the tyranny
whose rules extend as far as the end
of a never ending page
in your sleep of timelines and scrolls
Don't talk to me about being alone


As I walk down on Broadway, her tired wrinkles tell me the story
She can’t stand but says that today she’ll confess her love
“And, tomorrow, maybe tomorrow he’ll go home and meet
pops” “Once I tell him what I feel... oh what a relief” 

Full of voices and memories I think of Margarita, Juana, Márgara, Mamá, amarga
She saw days pass by her porch with her eyes closed
thinking of rosaries, sour herbs, and amulets
Wanting to see grassroots from underground because since he
died, she had no reason to be 

She raved at night with moans and calls to La Pelona
while her wrinkled face
became a map
of children, and
barefoot walks
in between
the rails 

Raved stories of insanity
nightmares of deadly sin, 
of other lovers
across the corner,
of children never born — a new uncle, 
a weaved miracle of eternal unreliable memories 

Drinking a cup of water-flavored milk
she gave up on her eyes
She gave up her love for the ceiling cats for
tortilla and milk
soup at midnight
in a hunger strike for lost love 

Outside, in her empty garden
she spoke beautiful nonsense
of dead ducks playing in the patio
of her hands, remembering the names
of nameless children while pretending
she arrived to Mount Carmel 

She was not in a hurry
to leap over her shadow
to stretch out her arm and reach his
To touch his hand
where their fingers touched 

She was lost
Looking at her skin of cardboard, she said
Her eyes were empty
her absence frightening
She saw the grass grow from underground
two months before it did