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Any society that fails to protect its children is in terminal decline.

Sometimes a you is a lover, but he is not my lover. He is looking at me.

He handed us sticks of dynamite, rolled in wax paper like taffy.

He always talked of making money with the air of a connoisseur.

I have heard stories of the river, how people were willing to die to cross it.

At night everything feels. Even a river feels its way through the woods.

“I hope the scumbag rots in jail,” he yelled into the quiet night.

We talked. She was the same inside as I am, from the same kind.

The first time the world demanded more of me, I was twenty-nine.

Never issue a dare to a dead person. They’ve got all the time in the world.

If mine, then, is a religious Offence, leave it to religious Punishments.

this country will stick it to infiltrators imprison traitors love neighbors

Taller than most women, Sojourner Truth seemed to rise a little higher.

We see how tired you are as you lean on your rifle or your shovel.

A charmed sequence of words. The jangle. The strum.

Forgive my father, the promise that he made, that I could turn all this to gold.

Men like me and my brothers filmed what we planted for proof we existed.

One said she heard the jazz-band sob when the little dawn was grey.

West Oakland was characterized by unemployment, poverty, and blight.

Say what you will, a human being has the right to their own body.

Our ambition was a clawing, grasping thing. It got us out of bed.

A memory in the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink that won’t stop.

And the starved heart starts over, writing one line at a time.

Let father be a man walking to the river, ready to bargain with water.

“The kiels take extra time, but then you know your meats. Questions?”

Trump reminded me of the guys I grew up with on Long Island.

We could use our arms to squeeze or hold or load not a gun, not a gun.

“No, no,” we say. “We’re fine! Really! We love things just the way they are!”

He’s not the skinny hippie all the paintings make Him out to be.