The Ghost Ship sailed into the Oakland harbor smelling of burning flesh. No one was left. That same day people marveled how hundreds of yellow marigolds, all sizes, grew beneath the ship’s bottom lifting its charred remains
Still unsettled from my last call, when Christian babies had been dug from graves and stashed inside Jewish kitchens to prove guilt, now up against energy efficient drones all rubble down the ritual hole
Twisted Bay laurel trunks lean down the hillside branches covered in moss scarves quail make a quick exit like a troupe of dancers racing across stage lights to fame, the
How can I be sure I’m the best one for the job, a statue hewn from rose quartz, a slab for nose, a chunk for body, two lips unable to speak
I learned to think with my eyes speak with my hands in the shimmery violet and reddish black of the evening light the sound of Aramaic wending along the Eustachian
In my dreams, he stretches far or holds the hand of shadows lags behind as I try to catch up my Rebbe of Prague who installed me inside the Hall of Justice as