I tell my therapist it’s like a backpack, there are pockets I still have to explore.
Her statement had a dramatic effect, because her hair was floating in practically every direction. It looked a little like a painting of a sunrise.
Say I told these stories to a shrink, unfurled each episode/like a story-board, spoke them without undue inflection.
The places themselves don’t matter that much. What I remember was the time I spent with him and the conversations we had.
Now as the waves crash over us/ and the ones who pushed the buttons/ leave this world to their lizards
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!’”