Stories
Poetry
Flesh is temporary, memory a tilting barn dismantled nail by nail.
Poetry
From a pyre on the burning ghat a corpse slowly sits up in the flames.
Poetry
In my head at least, you thrive, you die in this mix of ghost and gone.
Poetry
My brother stealing all the lightbulbs, my parents live without light.
Poetry
Arriving on earth’s paradise, wearing only light for their bodies.
Poetry
Arrows shot by the halt at the lame,
Opinions come and go just the same.
Poetry
You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.
Poetry
A memory in the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink that won’t stop.
Poetry
We are not fit for this. We cannot tell a ruined town from river.
Poetry
A sociopathic streak on my father’s side I try to put to good use.
Poetry
For the president’s arrival they shot two dogs making love on the tarmac.
Poetry
With a hammer well aimed, try to destroy the whole with a single blow.
Poetry
The poem I can’t yet write saves itself for when it can’t be avoided.
Poetry
Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.
Poetry
Men are so delicate, must be given many portals. I try to be game.
Poetry
My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.
Poetry
My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.
Poetry
Condemned to an easy life balanced on the suffering in another land.
Poetry
I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.
