Your Wolf Heart ~after a line in Jack Gilbert’s “How to Love the Dead” The teeth bow out like waves hitting the shore.I have an inside voice, tongueless and mute.A wildflower forest : A century of weeds.When we had no money, we broke the bank my momhad given me and ate tacos for a week. […]
He has never-met a bad-Sofia. Do you-want-children? What would you-name-your-daughter? She has known him for five minutes, maybe ten. Sofia, he-thinks. Sofia is a-lovely, lyrical name. Sasha can’t pronounce his name so she calls him you. In fact, she can’t even remember what he told her his name is to begin with. Her lipstick has
A montage of maple, sassafras, birch, and beech trees. Leafywaves, ridges, saws, hand and mitten patterns cling to branches by thin support.Tulip tree petals, fluorescent orange and yellow, form ranksalong the path sun creeps like wisteria along the trail. A riderpushes down the pedals of her scratched mountain bike.With rain and change of seasons, a
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Van Gogh tried killing himself, but people still talk more about his severed fucking ear. He also headed South of France, someplace I’d like to go. Maybe not to get somewhere or get away from someplace. Like point A to point B. I’ve never been on one side or the other, more or less in
“Listen to the Hot Air Balloon Talking” Read More »
“The Bark of a Tree Was Once Gentle in the Mouth” During war, famine spoilsthe tongue–burdens it withfiery curses. Now the palate is marred. The bark of a tree was once gentlein the mouth. Now miswak deafens what it ismeant to clean. Teeth cannot hearTheir porcelain ears shatter The cavern above cracked gums growsThe mind,
JACK: Our fight will fade, yours will too. There’s no stoppage to the stoppage of allthings, all evil will cease with time, so what’s the point? The sun will rise on the day we chooseto die, it’ll set too unaware of the significance of the day. The sun will rise one day to find thatit’s
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I lung for that pollen sneezin’, sticky car seatin’, Atlanta heat, but it ain’t enough I’m tryin to return to the black I was always supposed to be before the belly of history regurgitated me I want that same wavy sun over the equator of Africa Ugandan, Kenyan, Somalian, I want to be black mixed
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“Diaspores” A broken clothesline leans against its shadow nothing to hang memories on through the stillness of the desert landscape I meander fragrance of creosote bush underfoot dry winds blow clockwise shifting transverse ridges of sand In the distance a prickly pear cactus tempts the coyote despite needles the coyote consumes its fruit spreading seeds
“Diaspores”, “Portrait at the Border”, and “The Seedling” Read More »
Till death do us part,for as long as we both shall live,She and He vowed. [1] Papermaps for each of the stamps in Their new passports. First time flyers, squeezing shut theireyes andeach other’s armswith every turbulent drop, souls movedby ospitalità italiana,we haven’t left but when can wecome back? [2] Cottononesies with twirling green elephants
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“J’y suis, j’y reste”(Here I am, here I stay) Across the cerulean chasm of id,I press the pincers of my forlorn self-pity& bitter disappointment to set aboutwith ritualistic seppuku—their wakizashi forged from anihilistic meteorite reeved inthe rictus-grin of atmospheric immolation. Separation is an illusion.Yet, when I dare slip away foran hour or two from conscious
