Back then, a thistle wore a skirt of blossoms.Death streaked your toenails blue. I asked if I was wrong in leaving you.Walking along Leona Canyon, I answered no. The manicurist
I’ve never seen a picture of Bob Dylanas a baby girl but who knows one day the photo may pop up someone swearing on social media it’s Bobby scowling at
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