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Before we too vanish, we hike to where three trails converge.

I do not expunge the past but ignite the fuse to a whistling pinwheel.

The notebook’s cotton pages are spangled with axes and sickles.

American poetry is afflicted by modesty of ambition.

Poetry can open. Is there a case for poetry in this plague year?

Imagine first the mighty blast. And then the mushroom cloud.

We drink to Nixon’s impeachment again, this time with the good stuff.

she thrust to where her gut bucked acid & gave out a taurine heave

God, I need to know what happened to those who tried to cross.

All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.

money gotten by blood tends to stay in the blood, which has no race.

“Why don’t you say anything, people? These thugs are murdering me!”

I reviewed the rules for myself, among them: stay in the moment.

Words appear like the answer to a question I hadn’t yet asked.

She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.

The Warsaw Pact invaded in 1968 and soon banned Hrabal’s work.

The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.

Lust for power and money undermined their morality and common sense.

The appetite for self-surrender is nothing new in our makeup.

The past is never done with. It begs to be fed, demands to be eaten.

Pale dust clung to their skin like the lime he had thrown on the dead.

Upon his supine monstrous shape there was a colossal inertia.

If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.

I am not prepared for postwar Freetown. Postwar Sierra Leone.

Burly Viking raiders are standing in the coffee line, sharing pickles.

I sobbed even through hymns sung too gently to lend me cover

She looks in the mirror above the sink, and her image makes eye contact.

The website said November was a good time for appreciating bark.