A story shining from every windowno third wall separating the storefrom the shopper, the poem from the poet shape, light, and color those were his stock in tradea socialist and Jewish
I’m exiled in a countrybetween two great waterswhere tornados churn housesinto toothpicks, a mall that used to grow corn. Lunch-time I serve french fries a uniform disguisewith few requirementsnodding yes or no until I disappear
Hard to believethey’re closing the doors againthe whole right to life thing. No man knows how to create a home from dreams, prayers, yearningthe magic stuff of umbilical fluid not the
Crossing the Bay Bridge todayI saw an Armenian Genocide bannera public service stretched across the top-knot of Treasure Island yet another grouphunted down by history a convenience story for everything gone
We stood around the mailbox discussing the noise coming from behind the wall of our bathrooms. I was just back from grocery shopping. Arven, my next-door neighbor said, “That’s what you get
For weeks I saw cardboard boxes stacked outside the landing my neighborsdismantled eight years of living everything taped and labeleda two-bedroom bought on foreclosure paid off in overtime. We agree.