City of Writers: A Weekly Newsletter
For Simba Like back in the day, all these emotions make me numb Time has lost all sense of propriety Food tastes like the ghost of a cloud I miss you, and I don't know what to do Everything is blurred, crumpled foil Tossed into the bin like yesterday's news…
Another breakfast alone Won’t wash the bedsheets Can’t lose the scent of your cologne These words will dry on their own All these things that I’ve done
Home is where the fences are cinder blocks, radiating heat well into the night. Home is where the shit on the street is from ornamental plums, and not migrating ducks and geese. Home is knowing where the garlic salt is in the kitchen. Home is where your dog is. Home…
To be young again! To jump on cracks, breaking Mama's back To run from the shadows of a cloud on a spring day To skip to my Lou, fall down from a ring of roses Hopscotch, and jump-rope, and down down baby To be Enlightened by curiosity To examine the…
I won't let you in, I'll fight you to the end Too close, I can no longer be your friend Love ends, where hate begins You are which of the seven holy sins? Hold you down, surrender to me Mission to the black hole of a distant galaxy You make…
Fruitful and productive Tired and antisocial Emotions that define my life I have seen wonderful things Celebrated milestones with loved ones I am a true gastronome Yet I feel alone in a crowded room It is time to stop dwelling on the negativity And let the sunshine in It is…
Things that are full of music Cascade like a waterfall Down the coin slot Chirping in acceptance, once, twice, three times luck be a lady. They call me the One-Armed Bandit The meadow in the Wild West Words and music under the gun Of the tiger's sun. The Ballad of…
The battlefield in my headis littered with the loversI'll never bed, let alone wedSee me ride the light of loveTo a place inside his heartFalling below the mists, undertowSinging the praises of an unknown soldier,Broken apart by the promise of releaseFight with me, beside me, inside meBehind me, roller-coaster ride…
We practiced our haibun in my grad school poetry class. This was my result. The tsinelas on my feet do not protect me from the grains of sand. My mother's pale skin is a gentle reminder for me to protect my face from the sun, so I don't get tan…
Where are you from, a person is often asked.Where indeed? I have no answer. My eyes are slanted, but I'm not Oriental.I'm not a rug, don't tread on me.My jeans are Levi's, but I'm not a stadium.Don't play games with me.My feet are blistered, but I don't wear high heels.I…