A poem about a man trampled by starlight, his ropes creaking. The man as a red berry crushed between god-teeth, a blood-fat flea, his bones carved into dice, man-guts fluttering like flowery ribbons, the Black
Come with me and tour the urban prairie—Detroit apocalyptic—no garbage pickup, street lights out, houses windowless, like refugees sagging shoulder to shoulder behind wire. You can buy one if you wish, if you have
I feel the concrete crack and break, a building bleeds on lotion and cappuccino handshakes. Soul-on-stilts civilization lives over drained egret land, flowing dryly away to the sea on a bed of dead woodpeckers.
When spring arrives in Florida, no one safely traverses our back patio. Our camphor tree, cinnamomum camphora, which provides plenteous shade from Florida’s searing summer wrath, nevertheless, turns on us. This tree is considered a