Your Brain May Have a Spoon’s Worth of Microplastics
In the hospital, my stepfather wakes. They ask him who is president. Well, what year is it? he jokes, as if there will never be a time he won’t remember,
Poems
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I write to make things right, or to make myself right with things. I do this by the right use of language. This is what first struck me when I read poetry in school and the urge was born or renewed to do what I saw poetry in the right hands did. To me, poetry is the rightest use of language, and it’s no coincidence that ‘right’ and ‘write’ are homophones.
Reading Your Posthumous Collection Backward
The sweetness of another world arrives,
through the small openings, late, page 400
or so, but that’s where I’m starting,
The Creak of Loneliness
The leg drapes like a story half-told, bare ankle, sock sagging, a loose thread of someone who once stayed longer
The We
we cars, we jewelry. we hey hey
at shorties who are often forward.
we unbelievable, two tone, cut
with or can’t be cut from.
The Hummingbird
I hate it when poets pretend they don’t know anything about their own writing processes and get arty and mysterious when asked about it, claiming in a zillion different ways that they ‘receive’ their poems from the Beyond, or that the poems already exist in the abstract and that they, the poet, just ‘discover them,’ etc. I’ve been hearing a lot of this kind of thing lately. I think it comes in waves.