I once left one of my poetry journals on the table I was sitting at while I was tipping a stripper on the main stage, I went to take a piss and when I came back a stripper named Laylay had read some of my poems she asked, ” are you angry when you write
Stood up for lunch, I visit the deli anyway, order, and wait outside. The sun is hot on my arms. I roll up my sleeves. I love to tan, freckles stippling the backs of my hands, forearms, wrists. Hairs brightening. The waiter brings my sandwich: braunschweiger, mustard, pickle. I love this meal; am not ashamed
On December 22, 1882, an old newspaper reports a demented woman was sent from Georgetown to the Grant County Jail. Sheriff Whitehill is at a loss, poor creature, New Mexico law makes no provision for paupers or the insane. Her name, where she was born, or if she had a sister who loved flowering dogwood
I come from people who would not forgive. They were Spanish Protestants who ran like hell from Cortrai to Holland and New Amsterdam, damning the Inquisition, and they were the Inquisition. They were Puritans who painted their kitchens _________in Connecticut and Massachusetts the bright blue of angels, and led frail old women to the gallows
They might as well be relics from the Middle Ages, Shrouds of Turin paraded through the Vatican, or Fremont Street. Torn faded and fraz- zled in the knee you can barely read the words on the right rear pocket: Levi Strauss Original, Riveted, Quality Clothing. riveted to a winding trail in the Smokies, the mule
I hear of runaway dreams Lost in urban places, spilled Over in halls used as personal Urinals, a nodding head stills, A once promising voice. I hear of deferred dreams Lost on manicured lawns, Spilled over in suburban walls. Shouts of “Daddy’s home” Stills a voice in hidden places. I hear of spoken dreams Among
A small boy smiles to think he can be anything when he is a man
Though an eye looks with a tear, A hand reaches with a smile. You know it’s another year. In life we will persevere And start to walk our next mile. Though an eye looks with a tear, There are things we hold with fear. The mirror shows us a new style. You know it’s another
I’ll catch your teardrops one by one in a bucket when they start to fall.
Verdant willows, xanthic yews, zestful aspens bounce, carefree; dancing elms, festive green, hootchie-kootch in jubilee. kiwis leaping, maples nod, oaks pulse quickly, resonate; spruces tremble, undulate.
