poetry

castro street

Luck

my shadow
my train.
Luck, this much
is plain:

hatchet face,
ratchet grin.
The bin
needs emptying

again—
too little.
It’s true, I’m in
the middle

violas on a rack

Aubade with Mother Gone

And then it came back to me as I heard
a young boy practice his violin
under the concrete canopy of the park’s amphitheater

lavender leaves

Flight Of the Bumblebee

What music would Korsakov write
if he were here on earth as the bees
are dying? Their hives weightless lungs
paper lanterns swaying on the wind?
Their queen done telling her endless
stories to stay alive, no longer daughter
of the immortal gods: Father Frost
and Mother Spring, her heart melting
for the love of a man.

harvest moon

LOST CRICKET

The least cricket of evening
is invisible, naked except for
its tiny violin, the lost bell
of its heart. Somewhere
in this room my terracotta
cricket with its sap-colored eyes
raises a hair-thin quiver

lake

Billow of Thistles

I have only ever left this planet once
in a billow of thistles
after snorting meth amphetamine
in an abandoned record store
in Hollywood, birds settling
into the window sills

flood

Flood

I want to live long enough to outlive my mother
so she never learns of the needles hidden throughout my apartment
the way she once hid money from herself
for times when she didn’t work enough
and I pray if she ever learns