By David Kowalczyk

This word instantly makes you

feel tired and hungry.

Its mind is a festering hell

of endless lies.

Its eyes sting like scorpions.


This word is as ugly as homemade sin.

The smell of shame surrounds it.

It has angry fingers.


Grisly and evil, the throbbing veins

in its swollen forehead

are about to explode.


David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Oakfield, New York. His poetry and fiction have appeared in seven anthologies and over one hundred journals and magazines, including Taj Mahal Review, California Quarterly, Istanbul Literary Review and Maryland Review. He has taught English in Changwon, South Korea and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, as well as at Arizona State University.  He was founding editor of the late Gentle Strength Quarterly.

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