He's walking along the sidewalk -headed up the hill- carrying his backpack on both shoulders. His springy hair, like the willow tree across the street, hangs over his face. His face hangs over his phone.
In a future America I wouldn't be able to call myself a Poet —as every poem will be written in at least two languages. If, on my morning commute, all the street-lamps go out, and the city under dark, long shadows, were to succumb to the pressures of life without electricity— where, then, would our [...]
In plump raindrops, the construction worker, with his hard hat and faded denim jeans, dirty-orange safety vest, pulls taut a white string that comes from a manhole in the lane nearest the sidewalk. He labors slowly, like a man pulling a semi; like a centaur. With the rope over his shoulder each step is deliberate [...]
O! to the bee a clover in September : a sacristy
deepening gray clouds hang thick and low —crows scattered in the sky and on patches of grass, and in parking lots, seem to be coming from every direction. and in my head clouds part, and i see that perhaps for the first time in my life i have outweighed the bad habits with good. and [...]
It could beraining, but it's not — we both know this, the squirrel and I, it's just the wind playing the trees. The ancients of modernity those genius' of invention — they could turn on the tap with the sound of their voice.They also believed that corporations were people A couple of poems from this [...]
We are the culture to one-up each other. We are blessed, let us rest. ¥ This poem came about from the observation (after a week of listening to the news) that we seem to be only willing to point a finger outward, while completely unwilling to look inward. Increasingly we see, hear, and feel the [...]