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fluffy black nothings
It’s eleven twenty-two on a Tuesday; my head feels hollow; I shake and it rattles like a piggy bank with fragments of melted Twitter streams swirling their candycaned stripes of dandelion beauty...
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grandfather on God and Richmond, right-justified
………. I’m not sure about God. I’ve seen too much of ugliness for it to be intentional, ………. too much of beauty for it not to be. ………. ………. Take, for example, ……………….. the downtown silhouette...
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prayers in rough wood
My prayers in rough wood are strung up with twine and hope, spiral like incense to an unhearing heaven, float back to the ears of men Who with gentle hands unfold my finger-petals, suck out from...
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thaw
Deep footprints sunk in swift mud, tire treads of a season shedding loneliness like unneeded garments by an open door, shameless and dripping and pre- possessed. Beauty unleashed with the ferocity of...
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an overstayed welcome
Feathered pressures filter through the slightly wilted scent of hyacinths, a spring reneged of its promise before bedtime, all daydreams on layaway until a tomorrow when the threat of snow is once...
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(she spends) April’s Tuesdays
Massaging quotidian heartaches and pouring poison down the kitchen sink, clipping coupons from Nike’s wings while lip-synching to gypsy notes caught on the tails of fast-moving clouds and sipping...
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when rivers die
When rivers die, there is a silence of stones. Like all good pall- bearers, they carry the weight down low, standing straight while the lament goes on for miles. The sun unfolds across old stretch...
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untame, still
Her eyes are like young mares, dashing wildly for some escape to the chains her body has thrown round tomorrow, tying it down to this sad bed, these muted walls. It wasn’t like this, once. There was a...
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present tense
unprogram yester- day, its yellowed heavy footprints. reset, re- breathe the borrowed air he gave you in fistfuls until sighing it drips purified by sleepy gasps of oblivion. there never was a...
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death of a houseplant (Rowdy’s Revenge)
photo courtesy of Josue O. Colop . Beside the chair of sweatstained red where I watch the city’s freckling swelter on sticky noon Tuesdays, a lily lies dying. Nothing noticeable, mind; a faint fading...
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lunera
the young moon is strung up above the river looking like a pale imitation of herself, a soul-thief who gypsy dances her way though mid- winter madrugadas seducing me to desperation with silken...
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