Poetry

We’re running out of O2 screaming down the southwest freeway in the rain the nurse-practitioner and me rocking around the

Stuart talked to me in dreams so real I believed in God for those three years. In the first one,

I saw the bastard webslinging over electric Soho, miles above the stoplights and New Yorkers. What I wouldn’t give to

A century of silence is violence. * That winter a blizzard, a cold that crawled over the Sangre de Cristo

The border is a line that birds cannot see. The border is a beautiful piece of paper folded carelessly in

I dropped down against the mosque wall curled my shoulders in let my feet fall apart tilting toward the rubble-dusted

I did not come here to sing a blues. Lately, I open my mouth & out comes marigolds, yellow plums.

Let’s make a movie called Dinosaurs in the Hood. Jurassic Park meets Friday meets The Pursuit of Happyness. There should