Poetry
Poem of the Week
Take my hand, lead me by heart over the blind stepping-stones to the edge.
Poem of the Week
I give you a real blue song the mountains hold under their foot.
Poem of the Week
A rider prances toward the ash, a sailor looks for meaning in unrequited hearts.
Poetry
I shouldn’t have to say why the confederate flag is a symbol of hate.
Poem of the Week
What if Eve was an Indian & Adam was never kneaded from the earth.
Poem of the Week
Instead, I touch: The powdered organ. The thief-shaped hole.
Poem of the Week
Children can be seen as worldly things, not as souls with broken mirrors.
Poem of the Week
I walk into their tight pants, into their curves of sculpted flesh.
Poem of the Week
A cuckoo calls the hours like an old clock, only not the hours we mean.
Poem of the Week
They’re not, and it’s not, and we’re not, and only a god can save us.
Poetry
What if white men became supremely good at making up for our past?
Poem of the Week
Now only the single syllable that is the beloved, that is the world.
Poem of the Week
If you are water my left hand is a horse thief my right hand is alder smoke.
Poem of the Week
Come live with me. We could plant acorns in each other’s mouths.
Poem of the Week
You said cilím-xayqin, the very whites of my eyes you pluck out.
Poetry
It was the season of storm delays, of . . . shame and ghosts on trains
Poem of the Week
Our spirits are as transparent as the gown my wife wears in bed.
Poetry
Make haste, my love, I am redrawing the scale of escape.
iPoems
To get the job, always stay starched, creased to death.
Poem of the Week
I decide it’s as good a place as any to stop, pant & smell the roses—
Poem of the Week
When you are a father, want sons. There is some math in this.
iPoems
It’s raining concrete. I bite my grief wetly. Who will test these chains?
Poem of the Week
you a ghetto dreamcatcher under my fitted warding ghosts
Poem of the Week
Every room came furnished half-real & dead like mirrors on skin
Poem of the Week
The child writes, Child, and is amazed at this word on the page.
Poetry
Another year another almanac, a washed-out castle in the sand.
Poem of the Week
Some longings appear so frequently they must be instinct.
Poem of the Week
Bodies, moths, destroyers. Fear like finding a bullet in a snowman.
