Poetry

i.m. Kathleen Roche (1982-2018)   God of all comfort, close your hand over the tract                                                  houses of Livingston— lay shadow on the subdivided land of Christmas lights                                                  and cul-de-sacs and minivans—withdraw the mortar from the bricks                                                  that bind the staggered townhomes and cracked chimneys over white-trimmed                                                  condominiums— swallow the mailboxes down into the loam beneath…

The sickening canal retains a gruesome beauty. Today, the weather has waxed psychotic—chilly rainy in the morning, humid and dense as it grew hot, sunny for a second, and now the bluish gray of photographs of Eastern Europe flows from the train bridge into the sky. On the surface of the water, a cascade of…

We feel we have felt felt. We have felt what felt we have. Have felt. Feel. We feel what felt we felt is not what felt felt is. What we have, we feel. What felt we have! Feel! Feel not what is, feel what felt is not. Not we, not felt. Is is is? We…

Picture civilizations like sparse swarms of fireflies, space/time like the evening air in which they’re suspended. Each bug flashes independently, never simultaneously, randomly announcing itself without regard for its distance from another or for the duration of its light. That one there! That one is us! Doesn’t it lately seem a foregone conclusion that the…

for Anna Maria Hong   The master believes himself superior to his slaves. He desires comfort. He considers security and prosperity his birthrights. He prefers to ignore the labor required to create his luxurious world. He often fails to acknowledge the extravagance of his environment by comparing it unfavorably to the surroundings of more prosperous…

Ooga booga jigga bigga nigga ziggurati bati boom boom tutti fruitti Djibouti mama comma no drama Obama from a llama fonana fana Rosannadanna chapati do be doobie Debbie Rebbie covfefe lemme crammalamadingdong ching chong Chobani Thulani Donnie honey Damiani Romani in de windy Indy bindi— do the Lindy, Cindy. Damn you fam, you slam a…

Too easy, perhaps, to romanticize your behavior by comparing it to natural phenomena. Yes, the bird may land on the branch out of instinct, without thinking (though who can know for sure). The human being chooses to love based on a hodgepodge of past experiences—a sense of humor, shared values, similar tastes, compatibility, even combativeness….

I think, if I could, I’d be anything else in this world.   Mimosa pudica, my leaves closing when touched. I’d go back to 1729,   take for shelter the awful crypt Master kept me in with only enough water   to last between his visits, during which he spoke not to me but about…

after Claude McKay   & what’s the world to carve into your tombstone then? Here lies a man, twenty-seven years old. He died but he ain’t no punk. He was one knife slicing, shit- talkin’ wick. The most lit sonofabitch who’s ever lived. He slept with Smith & Wessons under silk pillowcases. Here lies a…