But I also don’t let such apprehensions stop me from writing as honestly and personably as I can.
We’re begging the world/to remember our name,/but we barely remember it/ourselves.
That’s the kind of man I am: I don’t believe in any lyric “I.” I don’t have time for any mind games. The “I” is either you or the poem’s a fraud.
He set down my cup, showing me coffee trees,/ Corpus Christi costumes, the totora boats/ drying upward to the sky, the salt collectors/ in the Sacred Valley, sand.
“I’ll open a locker and there it’ll be—your head! ‘Thank God you found me!’ it’ll say. ‘I’ve been in here for days!’”
But all he wants to know, my gorgeous lover of words,/dirt, puddles, and the sky, is why I “broke” his fall at all
Rogers had to sing that very song over and over and over again for the rest of his life at every casino across America. Doomed to experience his own success, forever.
The members of my online poetry workshop gear up to discuss sexual assaults of yore
They both have bright red painted toenails. They wiggle their toes and swing their legs and laugh. I bike home feeling the world is a beautiful place.
This is where, in the poem,/I say that I am descended/from these motherfuckers