In Belgrade in my hotel room
I return to the self portraits
from the earlier work:
smoking in the tub
while reading
texts on the New Art Practice.
When I step out of the bathroom
and into the music
with no witness.
It still happens.
And when I whisper
into the soft crimson leather
back seat of the parked sedan,
I still exist.
I am here
even when you do not
see me.
I am here
Trucks shuffle in the slow lane.
Mt. Shasta’s a crazy white cone.
I drive as fast as I dare.
Car my shelter, my tiny house
of spiders’ nests and trash. …
The 5, the 101, the 10
Suavecito for President
A funeral procession out of City Terrace
No ICE on the overpass
Just a shot on the countertop
Next to hot …
When I love another person, after I close the circle I say, “I know that things are not always all the way one way.” This is an idealized tenderness. That …
Three weeks after my husband’s cremation
I cancelled the contract
with the exterminator.
Now, I share a home with arthropods.
They teach me to inhabit
hollow spaces. Their movements expand
You have to remember the Aspen grove;
the white stalks of trees, their stuttering leaves–
the descending quiet. Vesper sparrows.
No one beside you; no one behind you.
But you hear …
In a room of gold, I am smoking. The parade of beautiful boys and women have long since gone. Along with the letters and packets of photographs. Yesterday G. read my …
It’s that song that makes her close her eyes and nod her head, music sending her back to a time before she had you, reverie back to that tight-waist hip-hugger pants …
You have to remember the Aspen grove; the white stalks of trees, their stuttering leaves– the descending quiet. Vesper sparrows. No one beside you; no one behind you. But you hear …
A woman who looks as old as them says try by the toilet paper. My parents might be the ones stooped over, calculating the price per quilted sheet. An employee …
