Audio

Audio, Poems

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.

Audio, Poems

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.

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