isha

she has -- a frozen glare, with pointed lips
and pouted eyebrows, arched: dangerous and sharp
(she is short)
but has the presence of a statuesque titan
her hair, near white, turbulently lies
straight and perfect
her cat's eyes, green, peer suspiciously from their deep set niche
in her thin, wide, oval face.

she is dignified, yet infamous for her many men.
she speaks spanish__________________in russian



oh that little green box

that creepy picture.

your feline features

intrigue me.

Jargon

Oh stop it! 
Sequins are tacky. 
Poems are jewelry
and exclusively able
to show off that
word.
The kings all fall
eventually:
they weigh too much.
The angels sparkle
but lightly,
with gemstone eyes
or even better with none: 
radiance is
glowing softly.


-Citron

main hand

he casually touches my hand, asks question. continues with work.

while, I....

                  .....awkwardly don't move my hand.

i....

      ....glance at it, every     so         often   . feeling strange...

and then i wonder,

 my mind wanders,

every hand has an invisible network of henna

a written record

have you ever wondered how many people your hand has touched?

a high 5

a handshake

a tap on the back

an accidental awkward brush

many many thousands i would think.

how many people have i touched       who are now dead?

                                                           who are criminals?

                                                            who are famous?

it gives me new reverence for my hand.

indeed 

i marvel at its intricacy

-Pamplemousse

Hallway towards a window

Shoulders make them seem older in rough fabric coats bobbing browns and hat.  Dripping squeaking shoes a film of slime on every industrial floor tile.  There are no branches in this hallway, but when people turn off it seems like that in the movement of the ocean, like levees could be island oases in the way the sea water moves.  Speckled and musty shoulders, pushing forward toward some beyond and in headed goal.  The hallways is prismic- a perfect square at each end.  I came in the hot blooded torrent from a metal barred door with chipping paint.  Before us is a window.  Here is my turning- says one young lady in embroidered jeans.  She'll never see out it.  I have places to go.  I'll never see out it.  I have places to go. 

-Citron

fog

with fog, the world grows opaque
a puzzle with pieces missing
that your yearning mind
                                        completes.

early, early in the morning.
when the sun's first yawns
have barely bounced from the sky
the fog creates a world,
                                     far away.

that misty field? it is an ocean.
i am on a road, adjacent to the water.
one can hear the crash of waves.

that shadowy house? it is a citadel.
i am on a road, in some medieval town
and see the flaming torches flicker from the towers.

those dark bushes? a low wall.
i am on a road, crossing over a border
marked by the wall
that will take me, anywhere i want to be.
anywhere but here.
over the wall, i see the grass much lusher, greener

the grass is greener on the other side.

the fog has cleared

the world goes on.

oh that i could find the passage to,

"the other side"

-Pamplemousse

Uncensored mind rambles, 3 minutes.

Frank Sinatra is wonderfully romantic.  He uses words like heaven heart happiness, cheek to cheek, wonderfully.  I can tell him exactly where in our history those words were created and why and by whom but I could never make someone swoon without chemicals.  But you know what else?  I'm stuck stuck stuck because (hahaha he says crik, like in browned old novels) (I make novels sound like ground beef)
because I can only write poemns about history class coherently.  No essays work- I can only express under this strange influence, the language of which I don't necessarily trust you to understand
as it is my own. 

I don't mind though.  Dean Martin is singing now.  It's like a nice little sidewalk.  I have a sidewalk to walk between two galaxies.  Actually I am in the center of two neuron black holes at once.  I only want one neurotransmitter stream but two kinds are needed to make me send the right information.  I wish I could write that into my philosophy essay...


-Citron

Uncensored mind rambles, 3 minutes

An aurora of glittering lights, violent violet shrieking as a brush of paint and I wonder where this picture was taken, it seems like a fantastical natural phenomena that exists only in dreams but there it is in "options" among condescending roses and jovial wildflowers of a merry color. Who takesthese pictures. A building splashed with union jack graffiti paint, who has times for cameras? Wouldn't it be hard to be an empassioned photographer? Seeing everything in angles, sudoku boxes. How can you relax? Just watch the world in peace through naked eyes sans camera screen.

-Pamplemousse

Chicken Dinner

Sleepy eyes and microwave beeping, stove fan hummmms.
I never made it to dinner, too busy staring at a blinking screen.
Irony chuckle about memorized life goals.  Beep beep beep.
I didn't bother to cover cold chicken... popping and sizzling on the white disk.
Steam and juices already overflowing from mass of meat
one bone held by thumb and index I rip the body apart, twisting
and breading flops to the side.  Outside fat and smooth,
splitting lines and lines on the inside, like celery but spicy
and more malicious on the base back of my tongue. 
A grease high. I stop scraping my palms off between bites
and a thick marination up to my wrists
turns me orange. 
Pulling at some other part,
I can see each individual, curving rib bone, black against a golden breading in light
cooked translucent, the spine curving into a wing opening for flight.
And then I realize- I forgot the chicken. 

The pile of dark bones and burnt ends stares.
Rivulets of blood always move ridiculously slowly
from the murdered. 
It is a very large pile. 
In all of this,
I forgot the chicken. 


-Citron

car window

breath on the window

swirling manmade fog on glass

messages written in transparent outline

disappear within a glance

courageously write your secrets

deepest most personal dreams--

and watch them fade

 and disappear.

30 years old.

After now, and travels and merching for an indie band and school and three well named research experiences and seven thousand three hundred and five cups of coffee and a bout of pneumonia and love, after that.

I.

I wake up to bells
that toll church and death
and go to both calmly
sweeping the
old stone.

II.

I peer at the young man
through a beaker
where one
drop
finally
dis

engages.
into the pool. 
My apartment is filled with art
by friends.

III.

I don't wear makeup,
even though by the rulebooks that's needed
for pristinity.
I know which tractor exactly
did that to his leg, and can explain hay harvest
and find breathtaking beauty
in your soul
I am not you yet
I am starting to get your freckles though,
and sun through mountain trees.

IV.

Rehearsals and lessons
taking life and soul and being a humming
a humming humming instrument
in the little boy's hands,
careful fingers work over his
and over my long ebony and steel magic wires
block I sit in front of the brass section
and sometimes my ears hurt a bit
power through me
beautiful beautiful humming humming.

and V.  as well.




-Citron

ceramic plate

why do you stare at the ceramic plate?
don't you know it's much too late?
to gape make your eyes inflate?

that flat flat circular plane
makes the light go blane
as it dims my tired brain...

why do you stare at me so blankly?
it unsettles me and frankly...
you look shuteye depraved and lankly.

-Pamplemousse

scissors are my paintbrush

snipping and cutting the cardstock skin of trees

they begin to form the shapes of leaves

and though they are the excess, of the larger shape i cut
i begin to notice that each spindly tiny shard
is a glowing pulsing knut

i see beauty in each slight discard of paper i cut
these scraps have angles...so sharp and clean
i spy a perfect square, accidental, unplanned
facedown on the ground

i can not resist, it can not be wasted, tainted
unappreciated

i see a combination of haphazard shreds,
off to the side
it is so pretty
i stop to admire.


but stop.
and sweep them away with my hand. into the trash.

the world is too full of beauties, to stop and admire.
the world is too full of lovely things, to value one perfect pentagonal piece of paper.
one must not lament, and one must not attempt to preserve everything.

just sweep it away with your hand. it is gone forever.

and just keep on...

snipping and cutting the cardstock skin of trees.

-Pamplemousse

4:30am

if the moon smoked,
I might understand that cloud
blown away
by a lung
bigger than mine.


-Citron

Retrogression

We the children of the future
the humans of the 21st century
the offspring of all the world's hopes and dreams

we like totally like fail to like...impress

we who are the distant children of shakespeare, austen, dumas
the master manipulators of words
more than 100 years ago

we prfr 2 tlk lk this

the previous generation granted us a marvelous gift.
technology.
it is wonderful, but if overused, a pandemic of terrible proportions.

i worry for our generation and the ones to come
the internet, technology rule our lives
granted, they are useful
but they take away from a human's creative process,
their work ethic, their mental ability sans electricty

Black Holes

I am not the Sun,
nor do I presume to be,
but I sympathise and admire
the helium.  (not helios)

nononoyesyesyes
eyeseyeseyes

Did you know that we will
never ever ever
be a black hole?  Of all the deaths
the biggest one will never be ours
of all the lights,
we can only witness
the biggest
and the smallest. 

But the biggest and smallest lights
can not witness us.
The earth contains exclusive rights
to witess. 

And should we become a black hole
ticking clocks would slow to a trickle
and should we become a black hole
the light of the universe should flood in
as soon as we fall inside
its dark gravity.

nonono
yesyesyes
possibly,
that's us. 

-Citron

tick tock

no i do not smell the dead red roses
from the gardens far along the golden hedge
i do not scream or curse, over the ledge
willing to leap
unwilling to reap
the nonexistent pastures
of the dangerous wasteland i find myself in.
wake me from this turquoise darkening dream
and take me to where the bees and horses teem.

cliche

Everyone uses crocus
and lily
and rose. 

Now age can make a flower antique and crinkly
so where smoothness was crinkles satisfying
but crocuses and lilies and roses
have definitely wilted. 

Why doesn't anyone sing songs about broccoli flowers? 
They would crunch
green and fresh. 

-Citron

Tornado

have you ever wondered?
that you were born in the wrong time, the wrong place?
that you are not in the right place, and everything is jumbled
because your fate was mixed with someone else's?

have you ever thought
oh if only i had lived there, or been there, or if my parents worked there


i could have been her.


each little action, each detail
decides the outcome of your life

they are the breeze from butterfly wings
that create a tornado

the slight whispering thought
that became an obsession

so, i know all this.
but the question is.

how do you control this? this frightening thought?
each small decision could change your life.
each word, determine some aspect of you.
each glance could reveal something momumental

terrifying

just throw your hands up, and watch the world go by,
whether it encounters you or not.
that is determined by the temperate wind

-Pamplemousse

song for the corner girl

For you
there are too many colors
on the stores on either side
and your chest pains at every misstep
and all you want to do is stand still
but somehow forward is it.
You're supposed to be somewhere,
at none of these rusty
buzzing neon and flaking paint places
but somewhere.

You're a little girl on the corner of a street
and your parents let your hand go to smell the fruit
of the green-painted grocery bins
and the sweet smell makes you sick a little bit
and so does the gasoline
and so does the bookshop
and nobody is holding your hand. 

Well I find stoops to sit on
and play the harmonica. 
I think I scare you,
mostly because you're not sure what music
to tap your little white church shoes to
This particular
steel whistle tune
is for you,
cormer girl. 

-Citron

a matter of taste

you sell yourself cheap

you sit around, waiting to be scooped up...

you change your face for each customer

you act sweet

but you can be bitter

you attract those with exotic tastes

and those that just want the average run-of-the-mill....


....frozen yogurt

Why thoughts are tough

I.  Medium

The colors I see don't come in tubes at Mitch's Art Stuff. 
They are not on shelves or contained by the HTML hexidecimal system yet.
They are not named, either. 

II.  Legibility and Connection

I apologize, haphazard pile of shoes.
You're as unpaired as the lonliest electrons.

III.  Emotion

All smile but the ultimate gummi bear.
I ate all of his friends.  He's the only one who knows.
Only the last one knows.  They're all colorful and sweet and
all but the last one smile.
And I eat them.

IV.  Work

The tree groaned not from
the wind but from its roots.
I tell Danny that "whole" is indeed spelled with a W,
because when he draws a tree
he begins above the crayon grass
and so too do I wish
to believe.



-Citron

Ottid

my twin in pen and ink
my inverse inversed reciprocal

---citron

speaks also for the pamplemousse

-Pamplemousse

Omission

Today I did write a poem- I promise-
but it's contest postulature suggests refrain from personal publishing.

-Citron

proverbs

if a flower stands up straight in its stem, with the leaves upright.
then that soil is fertile and a haven of virtues.

if a page lies flat and empty, no marks, no wrinkles.
then it is lifeless, and should be used for the fire.

if a pair of eyes view longingly from afar,
then do not meet them.

but if a pair of eyes view haphazardly,
then strive, to gain their approval.

io vorrei- poco a poco

Actually, I would rather lose it
poco a poco,
bit by bit,
like I pick up italian from music class
or as online poker breaks the addict,
like a jar of sidewalk pennies fills
or as shadows lengthen,
a frog in a pot as the water boils
death by straightforwardness
the dwarf star, pulsing with a heartbeat of
tempo one beat per anno
as a redwood grows straight and tall.

I never wanted to notice,
not like a force-fed goose
on a shrubby Canadian foie gras farm
not in a hot wax carwash
or a quick prick from a needled plunger
that pulls up skin in the withdraw.
I don't want to be a comet,
falling to earth as I melt with children's wishes.

I would rather lose it
(with novellas worth of words rather than just 'it')
like a landscape
not a sportswriter's photograph.
I would rather grow slowly that way. 


-Citron

just an unnaturally large sphere

What is the sound of the world?
        The globe
creaks            and slides
        as it turns

the map c
                r
                  i
                    n
                       k
                           l
                              e
                                   s         as it unfolds
and all of us.

not remembering where we are
sitting here on this mammoth rotating sphere
rotating so slightly,
it is hardly noticeable

and we humans hum
our voices creating low buzzing
a uniform vibration of sound

the earth is our world, the entire perimeter of our lives

but it is a noun, an object
like moth. or pin. or armchair.

we forget, we live on an object.

that hums, with a human battery

                

in an out, blood and perception

cardiac muscles are smooth central organs
that through a complex and concrete series of pumping mechanisms
keep blood in motion past lungs for oxygenation
through multiple passages with latinate self-evident names;
they are powered by adenenine triphosphate
and necessary for life in all viviparous mammals;
but that's not all a heart does.
but that's not all a heart does.
but that's not all a heart does. 
it keeps my blood.
red.
red.
red.

-Citron

the dying fleck of gold that can not leave me

this huddled golden mass.
inside the granite hourglass.
stubbornly refusing to fall
it presses itself against the wall.

do not succumb to gravity!
into the eternal depths of the cavity!
where the joyous memories
go... swept away by the angry breeze.

-Pamplemousse

I can not write on walls.

-Citron

Faded Tambourine

the peasants wear clay red hats

bright in texture,

soft in hue

skirts of eggplant violet

of hera's eyes

they jingle their tambourines

and dance

in ovals, because no one can dance

in a perfect circle.

the romas roam. 

and they are happy.

their sun kissed skin, has

turned to sun beaten leather

the wrinkles crease deep into their cheeks

their hands are worn handles

on the doors of churches

the old look like gargoyles

they have suffered

nomads have a hard life

as do artists.

-Pamplemousse

Struggles exist in wholeness

Problems like this just exist. 
A brain issue means I like looking at simple things
I find them more beautiful because they are easier to process.
Not that ease makes beauty, but clutter detracts. 

Will I be happy by not doing things that make me happy
with the goal of being happy?
You think you're awesome
because you find logical fallacies. 

I agree- you're awesome.  I'm stuck in a room with you
and its as cramped in there as my occipital lobe. 
Oh wait- that's not right at all! 
I am undercomplicating the matter. 

Brain problems are usually not that simple, sir.


-Citron

the cherry blossom in the fog

don't talk to me
can't you see that i stare angrily    at the asphalt whizzing by?

the cumulonimbus cry
it stings behind my eye

inflated is my brain
'neath my nail i feel a pain

i could not have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed...
because my bed has only one side

i hate my life
i hate my strife

my day has not even begun
and i already feel a ton
of ill feeling on my forehead.

ugh..............
staring out the window,
same horrid landscape
never changes
the same horses
somnolently grazing

what is that?
a goddess of the spring to come
a sparkling gem among pebbles
no, it is too meek
too pure,
          so beautiful.

with the mist dripping from her dainty wings
i see the beauty among the smog
i spot the cherry blossom in the fog

-Pamplemousse

I'm giving up lazy living for Lent

The reason for your wanderlust,
said the lab-coated country doctor
is not paying attention. 
Not simply to the sky at sunset
some truly sick people miss
but the sky at four oclock. 
Not just the interesting
but the why to the mundane.
Paths are just places you hit so often
the grass has worn away,
although if the dirt is truer, walk there
but not for lack of footspace.
The reason for your wanderlust, said he,
is an intuitive craving for the new
to wake you up from that roof.  Vitamin E deficiency as well.
The perscription bottle read
"AWARE (mg/kg): FOR INTUITION PROBLEMS"
A trial drug, he explained.
Always a trial drug. 


-Citron

tigerlily

the trills rise up the tree
the chords run free
in the forest of sounds there is no god
but what type of tree am i?
yew.
with bark the color of whey
thin and delicate as hemophiliac blood
and all the nits scramble and wonder
and wander the abyss of reason
but only in the early season
the season in between winter and spring

this season is bipolar
she is cold
warm she grows
she tilts the earth
but she is strung as well
the leaves grow
the snow is melted away
she exhales with icy breath
but just as soon hot wind is exerted from her pores

there is a bluebell ringing in the grass
the cerulean waves springing from her stem

i squint as i look at the sunflower
her rays are murdering my cornea
and i dare not touch her for she would scorch my pianoman hands

the dandelion prances in the garden
his manly mane so electrifying and handsome
the dandelion roars in the corners of the green

but his true enemy awaits in the hidden trenches of the field
the savage tigerlily stalks its prey

-Pamplemousse

Don't let the boa pollute

Every once in a while, I manage to pull off
an explanation deserving of applause. 
Regardless of reception, my heart warms internally whenever something is done.
I have validation from other streams;
this one can move cleanly on.

The scruffy guy in soccer shorts
tilts his head.  I admit-
from anyone else's tongue that wouldn't have made sense,
I would probably have hit them
then run away
because on my social self,
rules sparkle.

To explain well needs a change of clothes
and into strange outfits with white gloves
and a very, very low neckline.

I am comfortable, but
they look ridiculous on me. 

I strut with the sure step of a Madrigal square dancer
and then stammer like a backward handspring
but the judges came to see figure skating.

Sometimes, I ask myself whether it "matters" if nobody understands. 

Then I remember: 
I HATE not understanding!

PS:  Watermelon hats speckle.


-Citron

je suis

i have an enemy...

don't we all??

she has hair as dark as flaming burning pages
of the bible

she has eyes as brown as the most treacherous swamp

her eyebrows, thick and square, lie dormant beneath her hair

there is one giant random little mole on her left brow

she is of relatively normal build i suppose

her biting satire murders my confidence
her caustic thoughts pollute mine
her sulfuric criticism makes me feel small

oh,
so small.
and weak.
and undeserving.
and useless.

she lives in the darkest place,
until i'm dead you will not see
that frightful girl in my autopsy

for she is me
and i am her

-Pamplemousse

Danny's new wheelchair

When Danny was five he went to kindergarden like
all of the other five year olds in the sylvan neighborhood. 
He laughed and played with them
and sometimes left his chair, took off his shoe braces,
and felt the grass with hot bare feet
for a playground game.
My afternoon routine then was to hop off the school bus,
run inside our house for a snack and cold soda,
walk slowly up the hill,
sign the papers his nurse needed,
walk slowly home. 
"Faster, faster Emily!  Run!"
sometimes he hollered,
and I would run. 
We would come down the hill laughing
his face white and angelic and fragile
and mine a redder kind of proud relief
at being home at last. 

Well, Danny got a new self-propelling wheelchair on Saturday
and today is Monday. 
He can not be described as fragile anymore,
he has agendas and dreams and squarer limbs.
He still has trouble running but not for weakness.
His arms are strong enough to push his own wheels
said our mother.  So now he does.
I hopped off the school bus today,
slowly walked home.
At 3:15, like always,
I laced my sneakers and left to pick up my seven year old. 
I signed the form, reminded him to thank his nurse.

I opened the door and Danny pushed into the spring sunshine
and like a blacksmith with a forearm-sized anvil
he worked his way home,
I could only peck in a "watch for the edge" and a
"Are you sure you don't need help?" He was sure.
Going down the steep hill to our house
I wanted to hold the significantly smaller handles
tight, to keep him from crashing. 
But he panted to me that he knew how
to slow enough,
and whipped down the asphalt
cackling madly about "THIS IS AWESOME"
and EEEHAHAHAHA!
I ran behind him, and although our shadows merged
it was all his. 

He navigated the curb up to the driveway
and got out, stumbling from exaustion.
I giggled at him from the front poorch,
and he tired smiled back
a sweaty red proud relief
at being home
at last. 


-Citron

A Metered Critique of Logic

It was the second week of freshman year

and I a pretty average music major

who, to ensure I knew why notes rang clear

took Sound Physics as my Thursday night class.

On the first day I had percieved the danger;

I was the only woman in the room.

And before long, one of the skinny strangers

asked if I'd like to join him sometime soon. 

Math majors never take you out to eat

Our first date was a lecture by a NASAn.

The boy was awkward, true, but very sweet

and had a wonderful idea for our second.

A physicists dream, we visited next.

It had no forces sans what we put in it

(My boyfriend aced some big calculus test;

he solved this... anyway, he had to win it)

There was no door- we just ended up there.

It felt unnatural but I wasn't scared...

There were no walls, there were no floors, just us.

Our essences; not even any air!

I wasn't sure what to do, where to go.

Nothing to think ABOUT.  He held my hand

and whispered "heaven," but since sound needs air

to work I didn't hear him become man. 

You don't understand "only" till you've seen

trees wither here with no food and no sun

or soil to dominate.  What kind of dream

has no wakening, no morning to come?

Controlled experiments are only so

to find patterns in how the real world goes.

We had no paper to transcribe our laws

and the white silence was our sole applause. 

-Citron

electric aliens

with talons of deep pink
and pupils of darting ink
they lept around the moon

with leopard skin of plastic
and nails of such elastic
they punched a hole into the moon

with yells of screeching clams
and ferocity of sherpan rams
they began to attack the moon

with a sudden hush of painted awe
they all stood silent and hushedly saw
liquid spurt out of the moon

with the viscosity of frozen tea
the rainbow sludge flew gleefully
at the spectators surrounding the moon

they came out of their trance
and began their tarantella dance
happily drinking the juice of the moon

but alas by the rays of the morn
when the sun the color of corn,
shone on the face of the moon

on the ground, there were small holes everywhere
large, dirty, pockmarks, permanently flared
and there was no one to be seen on the moon


-Pamplemousse

No "Vacancy! sign"

Like a shot of gold in lapis lazuli
the island is in the gem
and normal strange.
One volcano, trickling
hot sizzle rock,
dripping into the bay like snails sliming
burning the blue.
verdant treetop-hills
that from far away could be mistaken for a mossy rock formation,
grown strange in lack of room.
There is a square blip, a spot
of hard soil and no vegetation
because the island,
through its growing from magmatic outward
always assumed a hotel. 
the gold is best left in the stone,
says the considerate jewler,
and the island chest hurts like
the smell of sour milk
in the hot tropics. 


-Citron

countdown to midnight

just half an hour more
until a loud decisive tick,
a ding a dong
whichever you prefer,
strikes.
           hard.
loud.  
           harsh.

on the clock face of my life.

life is like a clock,
you can not stop it,
age is time that can't be slowed

tick tock
one's learned to talk
ding dong
one's hair grows long
ding ding
i feel death's sting.

-Pamplemousse

Developmentally Appropriate

Sometimes my lines are echoes of
past braid participants. 
A word is my out,
and an older cord sighs at smacks
and labels them
developmentally aprpriate. 

The next line is the norm as well,
the anger at this older-sourced labeling. 
Steady twists make a good rope
and I have been handled by a skilled and practiced ropemaker,
the backwards and forwards of me
pulling to ensure cohesion and style
within my strands and between mine and yours
for general cohesion.  

But mother, that hurts my feelings,
regardless of the psychology of the rope. 
Self-awareness makes nooses
ropes aren't meant to leap forward. 
Intellingence and attemptive loops take an acid chain and
protein them,
living on its own and working, too.  

What are you looking for,
with your "Developmentally Approrpiate"?
Life and death
are glared back. 

-Citron

ugh. teenagers

you loquacious child
didn't your mother tell you to think before you spoke?
to only have flowers and lovely perfume coming from your mouth,
not garbage and foul odors of vulgarity.

-Pamplemousse

Chiralities

Because of you, I've changed chiralities. 
You're not a chemistry person, so let me explain;
All of my atoms were buzzing connected in a stable conformer (that's a shape)
and you come in, like a tornado or metaphor or non-symetrical carbon,
and I am an enantiomer, mirror image, of what I was before,
but so different. 
Nothing lost, nothing gained, nothing broken. 
You didn't touch me.  There was no reaction. 
What held me together was energy,
what holds me together is energy,
Every painting is, after all, made of paint, but
because of you, I've changed chiralities. 


-Citron

The Red Horizon (imagine jeff bridges is reading it)

The prospects of the future times
near the horizon with a hellish pace,
and as I raise my gloved hand,
I pray to God to touch my face,
To spread my wrinkles off to sides
and feel the shakings of my chest,
to see for himself, the life i've had
I, the Odysseus of the West.


-Pamplemousse

possibility on paper

-Citron