Dear son, It occurs to me that as houses light up psychedelically and you begin to see fat men in red costumes everywhere you go, when the size of boxes and bags seems to swell and there is
Dear Moonfaced Man: You were a demon to me only for moments, then for many years a ghost and eventually a teacher, I suppose, though I won’t reify you or the hungry shuffle you might still commit on darkened streets where desperation’s scent is as strong as urine. You tried to buy me or at least to rent my body, but I must tell you that renting the body of a young man may differ little in impact
If my fist could speak it would recount dumb reptile incidents of fractured picture frames, how it didn’t even injure the lies the photos told beneath the bloody glass If my fist could speak it would refuse to If my fist could speak it would put lyrics to metronomes originally beaten against car dashboards If my fist could speak it would scream If my
8:17 a.m. podcast bleeds Syrian over the unbuckling Velcro of studded tires on the wet pavement and despite the California stop of the cat at the four way I press the brake like a cockroach and let him go first 8:20 a.m. stoplight winks green just as a dark tangle of motion steals my attention in the parking lot north where a fifty-something balding man in a burgundy Aero 19 hooded sweatshirt and torn jeans is striking
The snow had just stopped falling in breakfast-cereal sized flakes in Plain, Washington and the Social Justice Fund board had just sat down to hash out the strategic plan for donor organizing in the coming years when Burke got the voicemail. His little boy, Lucas, born with myotubular myopathy, was in an ambulance, having stopped breathing in the presence of his respite care nurse. Burke reached out to me amid the crowd and we went into a darkened