Poetry

I am a child of the seabut I’ve always lived by rivers they’re never the samewhen the moon is full I stop in wonder when winter comes I crawl in my caveI used to love the city its buildings and clamor now I’d rather walk in the woodsand bathe in the breath of trees the…

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 modusoperandi was startled. Farnoosh scrawledit wasn’t meon our copies of ‘Lost in Translation.’Who is Gunmoll Jean? We were too shyto ask. But she did. Lee was all baseball.Every verb was nude, and every girl…

Long agopeople made gods of palm datesand prayed to them.But once they got so hungry,they ate their gods—then wandered, still hungryand lonely, in search of succor.Finally, these peopleconceived the ideaof worshipping godsas ghosts in machines—inedible gods of metal,stainless, perfect, and tireless,except that when they run out of energy,they look around forhumans to consume.

I will die one day in this landand you will fly back a single bar of mepacked in dry ice.The airport dogs will sniff the carouselfor traces of live matterand the cacao-nutty smell  will send them whimpering.Make sure I’m conched right:neither too gritty nor too emulsified,tempered properlyso I’m not laced in sugar bloom. The departed will attend…

Mare oculus, collect the light that falls as prismcolor-code micro-smells in the rain.Mare os, guide me down into dark cavernswet moss beneath my feet.Mare nasus, to the weaving interior fields of stalks, reachleather-green of pine needles, black twigs.Mare finditur, rift opens below the nose’s saddletoo tiny for my fingertips.Mare mentum, a final hill, driprivulets, slide…

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 were     every moment of her…

On a Russian prank show,a woman gets a call saying her sonhas been kidnapped for ransom.When she doesn’t send the money,she receives a dismembered finger in the mail.Something’s been tearing the ringsoff Saturn. The winds tooare different, some relationshipbetween positive ion contentand a spike in homicides.Is it too muchfor all that is good to not…

try to describe it even one quick linedrawn with unlifted pencil already wrong

It’s a private collection. My love and I pay more than we can affordto walk through this apartment-turned-exhibit. Our guide leads                   us into the first room, which is full of the sort of dark                  that makes you feel gone, that pulls your color out through your heels. According to our guide, this room contains elevenof the…