“Ghosts stories/told around the campfire/predicted my future.” (Poetry)
Our government only practices against a sunset bleeding into the cradle of tactile landing. (Poetry)
“the city’s landmarks/are illuminated/by your stopover in my thoughts” (TCTC Translations)
“I pledge allegiance to no man,/ let alone some fucking flag” (Poetry)
We’re whiter and more rural which means we don’t pick the president—we just narrow the view. (Poetry)
“Eyes reflect the distortions/of a whitewashed mind.” (Poetry)
“The footbridge is missing a plank./He has frayed the regard of everybody he knows.” (Poetry)
“Haranguing shots, agony, careening/blue lights stir fever in a dark bedroom.” (Poetry)
Many are drawn to martins covered with feathers that seem to absorb ash, stained with orange glass shards. (Translations)
“Apparently to be a poet—dogmatic on the outside/and lacking conviction within//is a hell one can leave/but doesn’t” (Translations)
“but the sea swoons/with delight in holy purity/but sand breaks the stone/that covers my face” (Translations)
Whilst searching through an unfamiliar room,/the guest against the bedstead sets abloom./A blemished bruise that raise on his shank pain’s gloom.” (Poetry)
on its way to a hip’s ball/ and socket
Once, existence was on/full speed, catching rumors.
Greek amphorae sprouting branches in the toboroches/ and Dante’s whole paradise embodied in a dragon fruit
Cut right in the middle
America ignored dogs
splinters floods tears/the people who’ve had citizenship for/over a hundred years.
dark people mark a place as dangerous or destitute, the word/ jawn marks a place people gloss over on their way to DC
Keep it secret, keep it safe:
And not one protection/ has come to them/ nothing sound.
Did I know them? No.
our/ bodies/ stop/ bullets
“Easier to say, there/are too many poets and there aren’t enough rebels.”
In the city that some used to call the Seattle of Italy, nowadays you can only overdose on poetry.