September 20

comment 1
poetry

traffic sounding almost
like the tide

this night spent
early

a couple laughs so loudly
in the lobby

there is nothing
silence can’t magnify

particularly stillness
a pipe empties

from the loft above
even ears plugged

blood courses through
its vessels

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September 19

comments 4
poetry

Al pastor with big hunks
of piña, a raucous song

coming from a band
of young drunks,

is it Roma, Condesa?
These streets run

around and around
like a race track.

Cerveza at altitude. Joven,
cinco más por favor,

con todo. What warmth
and light at this hour

of night. And absolutely
nothing at right

angles, walls coming out
like full bellies,

pavement in riot,
this city sinking down

into the prior.
Poco que sé.

You were a child here,
and so are more lovable here,

or, I love more here—
innocence is fearless,

if indefensible.
Every wall a canvas,

alebrijes line the streets,
bronze marigolds, a hundred

altars for the dead,
flies in the eyes

of sugar skulls, endless
limes, vats of jamaica water,

it whets an appetite,
new words, tlalpeño,

can I eat it?
I could even be happy here.

I could ride a bike to the Zocálo
sip tamarindo and never

ever learn how to say doubt.
Look at the size of this sky,

this city that floats
in a sea of itself, and tell me

over midnight tacos
what is and isn’t possible.

September 18

comments 8
poetry

Summer went out
like a light,

extinguished.
Rain now pools

on the roof, sounds
of passive movement,

the day cedes
more willingly.

Water splashes up
beneath a passing car, yes,

this city is more beautiful
when damp, saturated,

it carries more weight,
occupies more space.

Yes I booked the flights.
What hell to wait,

sometimes, to inhabit
every hour, each

a different room,
interminable.

Some hearts come
more even-keeled,

don’t yearn
while floating

through a night.
The wind picks up,

rain falls in torrents.
There is an art

to distance,
but I can’t learn it.

September 17

comments 2
poetry

Rain, finally.
As if home

was returning
from battle–

the cold slick road
engulfed correctly

the familiar treachery
of a high mountain pass–

prodigal clouds
come back as if visitors.

Who knew this summer
could actually end?

A timely progression
of seasons, how strangely

normal. Still a headache
from yesterday’s smoke,

but seeing it, belief
and then such relief

despite white-knuckle
driving for hours after

September 15

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poetry

It’s not pretty math
one saddled with the remainder

one the larger denominator
one always wanting more

This crescent moon is a quarter
this night is one third over

this silence a tense zero
some bad egg that might hatch

September 12

comments 2
poetry

Woke up to End
of Days, the sun

an angry ember
in an asbestos sky,

the only thing
not on fire,

and still death
to breathe–

woke up to a burning
throat, eyes wet

but even that
moisture went–

woke up to a sunset
at dawn, a dead day,

smoke following us
as far as we could flee,

South, West, the sky
never got right–

that sick yellow hue
of a blister–

we kept all the windows
shut and it didn’t matter,

smoke got in,
permeated our clothes,

hung like a shroud
over unseen mountains,

the tinderbox trees,
the ashen disasters.

September 1

comments 4
poetry

Untethering in stages–
the front door closed

the train from work
mechanical issues

a gate change,
delayed, the salmon sky

turned black now,
it’s beginning

to feel late, but
when did I leave,

or have I left yet?
Also a gradient,

shades of leaving,
and arriving,

and still customs to clear
when we get there,

a man paces, a baby
sleeps likes a baby

in a collapsible stroller,
stasis, the man curses

under his breath, static
on the overhead,

another gate change,
exodus of disbelief

we flood into the concourse,
and still no plane, we are all nowhere

except manifestly,
here

August 28

comments 2
poetry

Windows down driving
over the lake

the green scent of it
languid humidity

and the city lights
gem-hued, strewn across

sky and water,
for seventy-thousand

seven hundred and ten
feet, some peace,

spanning the gap,
the longest

floating bridge
in the world,

except
for hope

August 25

comments 5
poetry

This anger would be easier
if I was a painter,

could spill it out
in cadmium red

and yellow ochre,
let layers build up–

.

This anger has texture,
rough as a raised fist.

In solidarity, or to land
a blow?

I don’t know,
it chokes out eloquence.

.

How could such hate
be lauded? Add some cheap

gold foil to the composition,
scattered senselessly.

Rabidly.

.

A heart is a muscle,
it can fail, I know, but this

is an infarction of the soul.
Tear it down and start over.

.

If only love was enough
of a coat of armor.

This anger would be easier
if I was a sculptor,

striking and discarding
in order to bring order,

and thereby proving
it exists.

.

A full suit, in granite, immobile as grief.

.

No a night sky, stars made of headlights,
and none of them out. God,

the first time I heard your voice
say officer

I didn’t know you kept another you
inside you like that.

.

They’re stealing our jobs!
And more dog whistles.

No. This is a sic ’em.
This is open season.

This is the man who said
Well you know, they call you KKK.

They did me. I think it’s an honor.
Yes he did say that.

.

This anger would be easier
if words mattered at all.

.

Non-PC
and Boys Being Boys

and The Officer Felt Threatened
and Lots of People Are Saying

and Folks I Tell It Like It Is
rising up like ballons, so full of it.

.

And this heart, a big box of pins