Being a writer is all about making mistakes and managing disappointment. Let’s say you are going on a road trip. You get, say, a hundred miles down the road and you realize that you have left your wallet back home on the kitchen table. You have no choice but to go back and get it. But how’s your attitude?
you buy me 3 Subway cookies / and while sucking the butter out of them / I wonder how I can trust a culture / that manufactures idols?
We rose to it, held ourselves tight. Remember / the talk of the tips of our blades? Didn’t you feel / softened in the parking lot?
When this island was first formed / the sand was darker / you explain this & other things / but I remember
Another still in / another album, or an / anywhere of dirt / your throatless a capella, / an electric song unplugged.
Magda is six foot in work heels and billed herself as Jessica, as in Rabbit, way before zaftig redheads got popular, but her ex Shawn is small and freckled, and Magda once told me, drunk over steaks at Moxie’s, that the skin of his spine smells like a milk-bathed baby’s.
On the street a man reached out and touched my father’s shoulder. “Sir! Hey Sir! Sir!” he said to my father. When my father turned to face him the man took a screwdriver from his pocket and thrust it into my father’s face, above his right eyebrow.
I am cleaning out my father’s office. A room frozen in time since his accident. His cell phone still on the charger, papers still in the fax machine where he left them.
Because it only takes one—there were three—they dragged her—by the hair—because
the meadow—unaware and typical—durum-gold—because a horse
Home como ancla, no como cadenas, rather you as a worm, hooked / in a little fishing village by the sea / away from the desert calling / the iguanas Mother, though they could give you no suck.