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A Poem by Abel Folgar: THE SONG STARTS WITH “T”

(After Amit Majmudar’s “By Accident”)

The song starts with the letter “T” and it starts by accident.
The howl is not a shriek, it is an accident.

But there is something deliberate and cosmic;
a plane borne out of chaos and accidents.

The palms sway in sun and wind,
their inner sound, to the untrained eye, accidental.

Al-Shaytan knows the foils of humankind all too well
and he did not traipse upon them by accident.

Neither did humankind when it fully understood
that sweet is bitterly sweet in un-ironic accidence.

It is not so much having to grin and bear as it is
to fully accept the resplendence of harmonic accidents.

It is saying to oneself that the song does in essence
start with “T” and it is in no simple means, an accident.


Hialeah Haikus' Musical Masters Series: Miami's Finest Lyricists

Check out Hialeah Haikus by Alejandro Nodarse, Elena Santayana, Marco Ramirez and Alex Fumero this Saturday, Nov. 19 at 12:30 p.m. at the Miami Book Fair International Centre Gallery (Building 1, 3rd Floor, Room 1365). Click here for the rest of the Musical Masters Series.

uncle luke hialeah haikus

rick ross hialeah haikus

pitbull hialeah haikus


A Poem by Abel Folgar: Sixteen


Pry the veined leaves from the
sea, their focus unmitigated by
cyan-tinged promises of subterfuge,
obfuscation, derailment and

the tender lament of
topiaries long forgotten and
cast into the shadows of an
ugly and slow descent.

Now is the moment of reflection,
now the sky can kiss the wet hand
in a subtle manner,
noted for its depth of congenial

gravity, its lack of emotive
harrumph a coiled seahorse’s tail,
a way to drift listless,
wrecked and comatose.



Books and Books in Coral Gables is hosting a reading of Tigertail’s 9th literary annual Florida Flash. Editor of this year’s book Lynne Barrett gave each author a 305 maximum word limit. How could you not love that idea? The reading starts at 8 p.m. tonight and a few THL writers and friends are featured in this wonderful anthology, including Peter Borrebach, JJ Colagrande, Denise Delgado, J. David Gonzalez, Dave Landsberger, and Yaddyra Peralta. I’ll be occupying Miami later, but I’ll be with Tigertail in spirit.

by , posted Oct 17, 05:57 PM


miami neon

I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I refuse to shave.
My shoes are soft
but my step is strong,
strong and loud
and heard by philanthropists
and lovers of poetry alike.
I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I have a fox in my backyard.
My bestiary is rounded out by
weird little dogs who
disobey my command
and find sustenance in scraps
of discarded poesy.
My whiskey is good
and I share it after a few drams
have raged through me.
I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I give South Florida
her golfing sun,
the fish nibble on my spent flesh
and Lebron follows my tweets.
Clothes look good on me.
Soft plain white T’s and khakis
accentuate the gruff
of my xistera launching pelotas
with murderous intention
into the neon Miami skyline.


THUNDERSTORM: a short story


Everything in the sky looked ominous.
“I’m hungry,” Zeus said. “Make me a salami and provolone sandwich.”
“Order out,” Hera said.
“Quiznos doesn’t deliver to Olympus.”
“What do you want from me?” Hera said.
It was the latter part of a dark afternoon.
“Come on—” “No.” There was a long, deep, bellow in the sky.
“Will you listen to my stomach? Do you want to scare the mortals?”
“Go fuck yourself, Zeus.”
“Baby.” He walked toward Hera and placed her head on his breast. “Is this about Semele?” Pitter, patter, pitter, patter, splat, splat. “She’s not worth your tears, Goddess.”
“I hate you.”
“Will you listen to my stomach?”
On the planet below a black Labrador yelped and ran into the bathroom to cower behind a white shower curtain stained with a brown chalky film.
“You make me sick,” Hera cried.
“Enough of your crying,” Zeus said, stomping his foot. “And fuck Semele.”
“You already did.”
“Go make me a sandwich, goddamn it.”

“I’ll get you, Zeus. I’ll get you and that fucking slut.”

J.J. Colagrande is the author of Headz, a novel.

“Thunderstorm” is part of the collection Are You Hungry? scheduled for publication Spring 2012.


Poem: P. Scott Cunningham Clerihews

o miami

P. Scott Cunningham’s wife is a figment of his imagination,
or rather, the affirmation of a small,
well-paid cadre of people who attest her reality.
I’ve never met her because she supposedly travels a lot.

He’s rabid over Wade County and the LeBron fiasco,
he’s a typical whiteboy that way,
hoop dreams and double-dribbles that translate into
Facebook picture posts that betray fanboy sensibilities.

P. Scott’s generous when he’s thick in the drink;
lets you wander his tropical estate unattended
to help yourself to unpronounceable single malts he received
as wedding gifts that are cleverly hidden in his kitchen.

More (215 words) »


Hialeah Haikus' Musical Masters Series: Trina

trina 2

Red lips and no bra/
Trina rocks the same outfit/
despite Halloween

More (92 words) »