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No More Magpies on My Windows: Four Poems

At Night, By Myself                         —for Xiaobo life plays its bleak tunestedious, gloomydaylight without light a rice bowl drops on the floora ripple of soundpiercingour segregated hours a cat quietlypasses through the grass at nightits two green eyes glimmeringloneliness don't try to catchthe firefliesthe nightly ghoststhey're dancing outside our life i'm fruit of darknessanguisheddreaming…


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

A-Side, B-Side

He had kept the bulk of his music library, which covered every genre from obscure Sub-Saharan drum tracks recorded on cell-phones to honey-tongued R&B to Norwegian black metal, in his parents' basement. It was the only place, he had argued, that could support the weight of it all.

Three Found Poems: Virginia Woolf's The Waves

I see the moon—flickering, broken leaning against the sky—and am afraid.

No More Magpies on My Windows: Four Poems

At Night, By Myself                         —for Xiaobo life plays its bleak tunestedious, gloomydaylight without light a rice bowl drops on the floora…

Judith Gap

Here is something we have learned time and again: you need not love everything. You do not have to devote yourself to what you thought you’d enjoy. You can decide, whenever you like, that what you feel is no kind of love.

From the Archives

The Heat of Dar es Salaam

On the day I was born, the air was a supple stew—heavy with overripe fruit and armpits, ocean salt, and slow-roasted goat meat. Of course, I don’t remember that day, but I was born in the Tanzanian city of Dar es Salaam—just ‘Dar’ to the locals—and the viscosity of the air is the first thing that visitors remark on. It is what they remember most.

Three Found Poems: Virginia Woolf's The Waves

I see the moon—flickering, broken leaning against the sky—and am afraid.

Letter from Sanderson, TX

Your dad died most of 2 weeks ago. I don't want you to care too much about it. I sure as hell don't...

Duplicate of Can I Have a Hug First?

As a witness should I run to her? Make sure she's not suffering a stroke or an aneurysm? I pictured a headline demanding the whereabouts of a witness who'd left the scene of a potential homicide.

From the Blog

MASS CULTURE AND THE AMERICAN POET:
THE POEM AS VACCINATION

I once drove around southwest Arizona with a photographer named Pedro, from Mexico City. His specialty was making ethnographic forays into North America,…

Travels with Steve, and Good Writing

My old friend and former teacher Steve Orlen and I walked many miles together along the wide avenues of Tucson, Arizona. Our promenades usually took place…