The Return
When I returned to earth after forty thousand years / there were no more graves, no more cathedrals.
Gay Chicken
We were nine and eleven with no concrete name
to christen the hunger in our loins. Fire,
then brimstone: wingless birds impatient
to fly the coop.
What to Do if You’re Barely Scraping By
Have you tried paying down the balances of your debts?
That’s always the first step to financial freedom.
Have you tried having a savings account?
The Tuner
A poem is born right here, somewhere in my heart, in my blood vessels, in my gut. It comes to the brain much later. I have to feel them actually pulsing in my body, and then when they get shaped, when the brain, the controller, the pilot, whoever one’s metaphor, however this metaphor can extend, takes over.
Something Fishy
‘Something Fishy’ is a rengay we wrote mostly on the ferry between Edmonds and Kingston, Washington. Fish seemed like a natural theme to write about while we crossed the Puget Sound.
Who Breathed in Binders
Strange we should forget. Once between the covers of a worn leather binder
a black girl languished, her limbs linked by iron, her feet and breasts
and muscle measured, written.