It was the prophets and the seers, they were the ones

associations: years of being ashamed/my sometimes

The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National

head permed heavy because rain don’t dare touch us.

i am a man's head hunched in the road.

mother hopes to tell me more about

You whom I could not save

A poem is a gesture toward home.

Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,

Do you ever get sick of trying to be a miscast space filler in someone

I think I should have loved you presently,

Love is boring and passé, all that old baggage,

This is the time of year

About suffering, they knew no more or less

the sun fails to make sense anymore

this is some decomposed music. this

She. My people came from Korelitz where they grew yellow cucumbers and studied the Talmud.

I don’t know where I belong

How horrible it is, how horrible

it’s clear