New Publications
documents
discovered
in DC
correct historical
inaccuracies
My Abuelo said, “Pepino Cuevas hits como un burro.”
My Abuelo’s fists were full mugs of lager at the cantina.
My daughter says my mind is sliding
words lost at sea, snagged in seaweed
The surface of a wide river is a cracked door, an open mirror.
Didn’t you see it down there for a moment? Back there
When the beer started tasting skunky, we knew the jig was up. A people that can no longer manage such a staple is beyond hope. The time has come to pack the kettles and seek fairer parts.
Dropping my pennies every Sunday into the offering plate,
I know better than to ask my grandmother
pleather purse clutched close on her lap
if God ever gives anything back.
he was scavenging for an old photograph,
his first wife, alone, a Canadian ferry
During my Lonely Summer, 1999, my cousin Jonathan arrived in Boston from Chicago, and called to tell me his friends’ address where we planned to meet.
After thanking her too profusely for the meal of apples & sesame crackers, he smoked a ceremonial final bowl & blasted “Behind Blue Eyes” through the borrowed headphones
Circle the body’s sad regrets like a Quaker meeting with rose spike gloves