Piñata rain

Listeners shift attention to this smell:
Exploded tires are rubber siding for a shelter
plastic bags build bonfires

Down the block “smoke signals,”
Cry emaciated dogs for scraps limping

Competition cocks fight a frustrated crow
Servants “live-in” an outside kitchen; cooks for household
Flips flop on a painted concrete floor

Sniffing fake flowers
Makes us sneeze from the dust

Shelf of knickknack Jesus shrine
Maria-Hosep holds him just
A plastic automatic; little boy gun toy

His story is breeding
Listeners bear witness

Lives shred
Op-ed clippings
Ash rains
Terraces saturate the confetti shower of shell powder-body shock

Terminate the masquerade
Pudding body cotton family holy is the matrimony
Tobacco brother pallbearer plow the rice ceremony

“Piñata rain,” the milkfish comment as they nudge oyster structures
Confidence the mortar stacked to self-sufficient order
Built better than the fatal footbridges over ponds for fish
Broken by beat of boots and boys off boats
Born of pallet scraps and friction hands flicking off the ash
Born to break by drops in forecast

Clouds distort the cloud reflection
Pacific bleeds and puffs clouds everyday
Evaporating back to a saline state

Ships sailing
Even when the wind stops blowing

Published by Lia Yaranon Hall

My name is Lalla. I was a 14th century poet in Kashmir and worshipped Lord Siva. I died and fell from an evergreen tree in the Pacific Northwest (47° 36? 36? N, 122° 19? 48? W). My Lolo found me in an ivy patch. I spent most of my formative years on the coast of the South China Sea spearing fish until I became a "vegetarian" (but we didn't call ourselves that in those days). Shortly after vowing ahimsa, I moved to New York, unironically, under the guise of "poet" so that I could perform aerial stunts and acrobatics for an underground circus called the.

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