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The rifle slams into my shoulder. Smoke pummels the air.

Mom often went to work on her days off. The library was her refuge.

The stories of terror continued well after the tsunami had passed.

Eating a raw oyster is like exchanging a soul kiss with the sea.

When we wake up, the five windows and the French door are full of light.

For years I thought this light was love, or God, but now I know it’s fear.

It could be our baby. Her eyebrow, its perfect arc, the pale blue vein.

It was the year we learned to wash our hands. That was one lesson.

It’d only take a slight shift to realize his new world isn’t a danger to him.

I don’t remember being born, only the great dog whose fur I clung to.

Florence’s cobbled streets spoke like a broken wheel, a halfhearted inferno.

She whispers all these rocks burning up in the sky can’t be a good thing.

A question from one of your favorite songs what would you do

The citizens of Aunay believed Pierre Rivière batshit, dimwitted.

Lucy Liu, you show me I can come to fruition and yellow on my own terms.

I’m there inside La Fonda at the bar ordering another glass of red wine!

I do not expunge the past but ignite the fuse to a whistling pinwheel.

The notebook’s cotton pages are spangled with axes and sickles.

It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.

you here and these words also here meeting in your shared beauty

American poetry is afflicted by modesty of ambition.

The act of poetry most often begins and ends in  solitude.

Michael Wiegers

Poetry can open. Is there a case for poetry in this plague year?

Imagine first the mighty blast. And then the mushroom cloud.

We were both up there smoking weed and axle grease, blinded.

Finger tracing the terrain, you hold me through autumn’s loss of color.

We drink to Nixon’s impeachment again, this time with the good stuff.