Good To You

The carbon dioxide-laced sighs I exhale could easily kill a decently populated forest. Instead, they make up the longing infused air of this iced season, and inevitably become the life you silently breathe in your self-imposed solitary existence. You are not to blame for needing to breathe. It is not your fault my generosity exceeds my reasoning. ©Kozi Nasi

A Lunar Catastrophe

There is no record of one ever overdosing on the moon. The silent mood erector, with its celestially scheduled appearances has been a commendable organizer of my monthly allowance of suadade-soaked neurons for you. But when the matte night-sky ornament suddenly decided, in the most lunatic of Shakespearian ways, to show its fullest of faces twice in a steamy July, the skies collided and tore up my calendar. Capricorn went blue, they reported. Venus turned retrograde, they said. And I overdosed on you. There. Add that to the record. ©Kozi Nasi


A blood clot, the doctor called it, after he ran some tests in the apothecary he called lab. A three word diagnosis concluding my complaint for the numbness I’d been feeling as of late. I didn’t tell him how it started. He didn’t need to know you had cut up my runner calves and slit my marathon dreams of ever escaping you. Treatment was dreadful, but quick. Deciding was the only painful part, none the less my favorite – my style: clean cut. Now the stars complain that I’ve become highly sensitive, withdrawn, and unfriendly. The moon wants to take me in and feed me magical dust. The sun laments that I’ve lost my curves and a thousand pounds. They cannot possibly grasp I’ve had to take out that infamous hustler of blood, that goes by its street name:...


Aimless but intent you wander about, a Phoenix reborn for the thirty-third time. Deep and long you sigh when you find me – the unforecast late spring whim. I stay the delightful while of the lifespan of a shooting star unburdened by the human wish. Then you leave happy, your mouth blasting smiles like confetti. That’s how you play hide-and-go-seek. I sense you. I see you. I touch you. You’re proud but needy when you visit. You fall, and then go. But you’re weak, and greedy, and can never seriously leave. I disappear, with your bite mark on my left rib. That’s how I play finders-keepers. ©Kozi Nasi


The otherworldly thoughts of you are tiny pockets of exhausting pleasure. I remember how to make you cry at the cost of a virgin’s laughter. But, When you lie next to me and your sleepy breath excites my nipples mauve When the fog jumps into my razor-sharp tongue and I taste its painful, smoky flavor When the moon is on her walk of shame and desperately tries to hide her one Super eye When my bottom right rib aches at the thought of its undone half When lightning strikes the wilderness of my hopes and I have no desire to stave off the drooling wolves of your absence When a voice matches the face (how rare is that!) but the soul fails to fit the underdeveloped heart I realize that It has always been about the tremor of the earthquake mutating off your DNA the...


1. Legend says: “don’t trust your type of man” I set out to prove the legend right for a change. Driven by the despise for its legendary unchallenged authority, I strongly felt it had to be done. 2. The sky is painted gray. I disassemble the clouds and rearrange them to look like cigarette puffs someone is smoking somewhere with conviction honestly believing they reach me meridians away. 3. The urge to leave you every time I love you is as irresistible and hopeful as the naïve thought of two like us ever fulfilling each other. Pushing you away is far more appealing than being mutilated by the prayers the butcher moon holds ready for me every past-midnight. 4. I go to bed to entertain the demons that pay me back in puzzle pieces that help me maze out the...

Height Complex

I can only love you by height. It’s important that extra foot you have on me remain unreachable, undiscovered, foreign-like, so I can practice my explorer eye or reenact the Gold Rush. I wear high heels in public six inches under nine suffice to mark a territory. ©Kozi Nasi


On Earth we’re briefly gorgeous. A man in climax is the closest thing to surrender. Someone named Ocean wrote that. My name has nothing to do with the ocean, therefore, I cannot possibly be gorgeous, on this Earth, not even briefly, not even close to surrender, not even if I were a man. But I happen to be a savage, instead, briefly helping shooting dawns climax. (a reflection upon reading “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous”, by Ocean Vuong) ©Kozi Nasi


According to him, and although she never auditioned for the part, she was not cut out to be a muse; she inspired him pleasured, devoted as a young nun, relaxed him too much, but came fragile as a sparrow hadn’t merely enough drama, but sensitive as a wounded storm a breeze to love, but not difficult enough to want to run away from easy to talk to, but stubborn as a theologue a good listener, but not always taking his side the best at singing his unrecognized praise, but not good enough for his lyrics flavorful to the taste, but toxic to the bite a necessary pain pill, but not hurting enough for his life. Until someone else came along and at her funeral, of her spoke: “She was a deliberate aphrodisiac and she didn’t even know!” ©Kozi...


Details Paperback: 130 pages Publisher: iUniverse (December 11, 2014) Language: English ISBN-10: 1491752181 ISBN-13: 978-1491752180 Product Dimensions: 6 x 0.3 x 9 inches Price : $13.95       Autographed...