The devil is in them—and in plenty of other pies too. A poem composed for Tuesday night’s “100 Days of Protest” reading.
This poem is not about the election, but it does accurately represent the way I feel about it.
Between me and the decadent majesty of the salmon-red cliffs of eastern Utah, a ghost landscape stands sentinel. A poem.
Mud thou art, and unto mud shalt thou return. Unless, that is, you're reckless enough to think you can transform yourself.
Mechanisms for transmitting words and thoughts and emotions across the gulfs of time and space are not exclusively recent phenomena.
This morning I came downstairs to find that you’d thrown out all the pictures of us.
A few lines in support of the proposition that a little whiskey never hurt a poem.
You used to be such a sweet boy, tell me everything, ask me all your questions. What happened to you?
Sometimes it takes a very special terrier to remind us humans that we’re more alike than we may want to think, and to bring out our latent civility.
A poem written on the occasion of encountering an online news article featuring a close relative.
Some memories you can’t outrun no matter how far you travel, and some wounds even time cannot heal. So deal with it, you mope.
A poem written on the occasion of moving back to Queens after years away, and once again riding the N train.
Showing 12 of 34 total posts
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