The only witnesses who remainare the coconut palmsmy father’s father planted.They still stand, tall and thin,though their trunkshave curved with age,and entwined in their ringsof fronds, my existence,proof I lived there once,on the same landand played in the puddlesunderneath their leaves.These palms sensed my first stepsand felt my heels bear deepinto the dirt under my... Continue Reading →
Ever since my son’s diagnosis, I’ve dreamed that I could spill a box of toothpicks and he wouldyell out the right number, like Raymond in Rain Man. Last semester, a student with Asperger’s announcedto our class that yes, Frank O’Hara was right in “The Day Lady Died,” about Bastille Day 1959taking place on a Tuesday, and when questioned, he... Continue Reading →
run out of breath, & silence followsrather than the little death. stub my shinson everything. not the bull in a china shop,I’m a bull on the porcelain Earth.if there’s a Bandage District in your town,my afternoons help its workers earn.when the mail runs, seems like daysno answers come, but a few new questionsin the form... Continue Reading →
about this piece Please Kick Me See More in Art...
drinking my teafor what comfort it brings me,I stand by the windowwatching this half-hearted quarantine.beneath me, the riverruns with white clouds,its rippled alternativeof black against silverlike light in the morningcatching a badly scratchedfrying pan.there are people aboutand cars wandering, though I must admitthere are fewer than usual;a black fragmentof burned bacon, submergedin what’s left of... Continue Reading →
Once a week it seemsI drive past St. Peter’s Churchand catch a parking lot full of cars.No, not for the church but a funeral.And each time I’m reminded of my ageand that this is how it will be.I try to tell myself, I am readyas I dart past the crowded lot.Only lately a suited manstands out... Continue Reading →
