The question I asked/ every time I tried the online Tarot reading site,/ hoping again and again for some ancient truth/ to blow up like a billboard in living color...
John Lennon tells me these things, and it’s possible that John is the devil. I can tell by the way he stares out so intently from the poster.
She reminds me of my Italian cousins. Square brick houses on tight suburban streets with Madonnas-in-bathtubs on front lawns.
Still, somehow, each time I boarded,/
the jetway seemed a partition in which/
I could change in and out of my skin at will
When we walk those same streets these days, me with friends of mine from those older days, and we remember running in these streets in our youth, when the streets were empty, and dirty and dangerous, but mostly empty, we do ask ourselves if perhaps we had some role, however tiny, in turning these neighborhoods into what they are now.
once you know the first aeronauts were women shamelessly fornicating their way through the clouds, how can you not write a poem?
The feminine, breezing around, messy—/
we may be our edge, closer to home,
The chemicals of each breed/
brings a new threat.
My advice for nonfiction writers is: Write fearlessly. Write truthfully. Roadblocks are inevitable. Fear is inevitable. Push through that.
i fill the house with candles,
the flames sit next to each other.