I’m so wildly unprolific, the poems I have not written would reach from here to the California coast if you laid them end to end. And if you stacked them up, the poems I have not written would sway ...

I didn’t live through the Christmas of 1929, but growing up in Nogales, the border was always there—constant, imposing, ...

Twenty-twenty was a perfect year to do just that.” ...

the penis is something that fits into the vagina so's the tampax or sponge therefore Aristotle never thought of women at all the penis like a tree fits into mouth, hands and asshole too it can be the ...

My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, where I dream in my little hood with many bells ...

will have to be worn to a funeral. New York a bouillon, eroded filigree. Anything but illness, I beg the plagues, but shiny crows or nuclear rain. Not a drop in London May through June. I bask in the ...

Come at it carefully, don’t trust it, that isn’t its right name, It’s wearing stolen rags, it’s never been washed, its breath Would look moss-green if it were really breathing, It won’t get out of the ...