Everything threatens— benches meant for children occupied by old men who clutter the playground and interrupt the slides where a schizophrenic takes interstellar dictation. I’m looking for a way out— not a way down and play the game of sidewalk juxtapositions: cons versus dot coms crazies versus kids in superhero shirts….
The boy won’t fall asleep without books, pictures before bed of polar bear who never leave a scent of blood against the ice, watered down tales of jolly rotten pirates setting sail. The cannons shoot coconuts. …
We have changed only in our teeth all of us look vaguely 19 but hard-lived for 19 I overheard it was a half-joke like your daughter she’s so easy to love to my father and we all laugh back home a hurricane is shaking the water and even here rain you look a little like a morgue cold skin and…
Plow your tweener backpack into your fellow sinner. I was fallen too. Sulk into your years and cropped organdy nails. Everybody’s watching. Your body’s burnt to ash, to the stranger’s thumbprint on your stubborn pimples. I see a younger you, a candle-smoke ghost hardening into form, fleshy knees and fists marbled at the altar rail. You’re still the baby who asked no deliverance. We’re not…
is about sorrow the same way the 56-ounce bag of red white and blue M&Ms is about sorrow. The former has a chorus in which Jurado croons is in your arms while the latter features text—resealable zipper!— at bag’s top because if you’ve got something too stupid to say aloud you should shout it. 71˚,…
The last time I saw my father sound and marrow-filled, he was standing on the front porch— almost the weight of a ghost. As I waved goodbye I felt a nerve twitch— like a dog’s ear batting a fly. He never sold me the world. He never said that people are…
I don’t often revisit the year I fostered all the neighborhood strays, teenagers enticed by decay and overrun with the lesions that wistfulness deals. I don’t often revisit the year my parents disappeared, but whose house we filled with smoke so indissoluble it consoled like blindness— the year pedestrians crossed the…
reading on the couch, your messy hair finally beginning to gray. You are breathing, moving molecules of air aside, inhabiting space that could go empty so easily. You hold a heating pad to your side where I bruised your rib, clumsy in my hunger for your infinite variety. ya’aburnee, lovers say in Arabic— you bury…
You know how lightning never lasts long enough to get a good look at it? and your eyes do this thing, as if they could grow larger, widen out of your face trying to see enough, longer, more— this happens also when the heron passes: too quickly. Today I lucked into seeing how…
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