Parkinsons, a repulsive pantheonparked over us, like a thick and fat pissing dogan imminent edict: time’s tapped out,slimy-slug slap,a snot dialed p-a-u-s-e.Hell’s hiatus, let’s be honest,before actual death then Jesus. Butin between off-course and confusion,apparitions and imaginary dial ups,short term memory on sempiternal sabbatical,I see, and sweetly so, he still likesto drink and dance, the... Continue Reading →
I’m old now. It’s been many years since I first realized I was not like other people. That realization was rather shocking since we are raised to believe that everyone is pretty much the same, we’re cut from the same cloth, and we see the world in pretty much the...
My grandfather’s hand was a leaving song;it was cold, like my mother’s kitchenwhen the utensils languished in idleness.Lines ran through it like a crumbling labyrinth,a million slanting roots of plants and vegetables,which he caressed and spat on open wounds,and wounded souls during his hay days,when he was the masses’ healer, their hero.He looked at me,... Continue Reading →
Inside my old man’s feet are feetof a boy. (I can’t say small; Iwas never small; 12 pounds at birth.)These invisible feet remembersensations I’ve forgotten:The mystery of the squishy bottomof the creek behind our house,black-eyed bodies swarming,slippery—some day they would be frogs.The tickle of blowing dustadding a layer to shoeless feetinches away from home plate,a... Continue Reading →
I don’t believe in losing hope.I believe in finding itperhaps by making pestoor deadheading iriseswhen I can be surroundedby what’s still alive:my garden, defying a childhoodframed in the gutter’s littertossed newspapers soaked in rain,smudged in dog shit. The dead-endstreet around the corneroffered paradise—an empty lotwith flowering weeds.Was that a lossof hope? Or a graspingfor what... Continue Reading →
Can you read a topographic map?I can’t. But I found myselfat what had to beSoutheast Corner Spring:mouth of a pipe,curved sheets of galvanized metal,hooves imprinted in the mud.Painted Canyon and the Visitor Center must bejust over that ridge,or the next,or the next. Read More in Poetry
“We’ll cut here and here and thenglide it right in,” the guy says, talkingabout the new stove he’s installing.I admire his confidence. Thingsin my world rip, stick, buckle, neverglide—more like a flap, with a hiccup,a lot of oops that don’t matter nowbecause somehow I stumbled my wayinto love that blooms in a little housewith bird... Continue Reading →
about this piece Sign of Life2024 See More in Art...
about this piece Seoul, My Soul2024 See More in Art
Water spilling from the gleaming shower head,cold, making steam rise from my overheated scalp,a moment perhaps unrecognized in the rush to work,but now felt along my spine as an angelic visit.Or the coffee on the tongue with humus rich aromataste of chocolate liquefied into sacramental quaffchugged down without notice millions of times dailybut on this... Continue Reading →
