Poetry

Double golden shovel on a line from Vera Nazarian’s Dreams of the Compass Rose   In the throes of my 41st fatherless Tuesday, I am strapped deep and down in the gut of a turbulent Boeing—keyboarding, wrestling dactyls. I wonder if the desert, a hundred grandiose death-drops below me, is still that celluloid desert, the…

Dear L,   It’s 3:19 a.m. I just fed  the baby while my son screamed, I want to sleep in your bed! We don’t let him  until the sun wakes up,  that’s the rule. The sun is still in its bed, we explain.  He counters, But I’ll be really  quiet. I promise. His plea, I just want to hug…

I loved an addict once & the tactile universe— sometimes my hands still shake uncontrollably.   I would like to be inhabited at regular intervals measured by sundials. Anyone can be a place   in America: a moving target, a strip of glistening sand, a clitoral appendage, a systematic reshuffling   of parts. My own…

I am a child of the sea but I’ve always lived by rivers   they’re never the same when the moon is full I stop in wonder   when winter comes I crawl in my cave I used to love the city its buildings and clamor   now I’d rather walk in the woods and…

In Westwood, California, our professor, whose name was, he told us proudly, Yiddish for fucker, careened through Merrill. Goethehaus I pronounced ‘goathouse’ and the professor’s modus operandi was startled. Farnoosh scrawled it wasn’t me on our copies of ‘Lost in Translation.’ Who is Gunmoll Jean? We were too shy to ask. But she did. Lee…

Long ago people made gods of palm dates and prayed to them. But once they got so hungry, they ate their gods— then wandered, still hungry and lonely, in search of succor. Finally, these people conceived the idea of worshipping gods as ghosts in machines— inedible gods of metal, stainless, perfect, and tireless, except that…

I will die one day in this land and you will fly back a single bar of me packed in dry ice. The airport dogs will sniff the carousel for traces of live matter and the cacao-nutty smell   will send them whimpering. Make sure I’m conched right: neither too gritty nor too emulsified, tempered properly…

Mare oculus, collect the light that falls as prism color-code micro-smells in the rain. Mare os, guide me down into dark caverns wet moss beneath my feet. Mare nasus, to the weaving interior fields of stalks, reach leather-green of pine needles, black twigs. Mare finditur, rift opens below the nose’s saddle too tiny for my…

America you never had a black child   I tell myself you never had a black child   America because I love you still   Because I have to love you, since you’re still   Alive.     But how are you alive   When your black child is dead, who was alive   And you…