Through his cigarette smoke, the moon (no, not the moon, not here, not in this poem, as over-used as angels and lit cigarettes after sex) but he can’t help it. He sees the moon, hazy (of course) with wings and smouldering stars (at least not twinkling) and ash, not fire but dust like her, in the room behind him, while he leans on the hotel’s balcony rails, cold metal (obviously) […]
His face appeared, the texture of ground corn, staring to his left, the crown of thorns, his black, wooly hair, and all Maria Rubio had done was to pray every day since she was ten, walk on her knees to the altar each week, bless her family, give thanks. Then between her hands she had pressed the corn paste flat in the skillet and when she flipped it […]
Her hands, ink fast fingers, sweep-curl of words are graceful beats and flow and thumping glide, a slide guitar wrapped around syllables wood-block foot tapping lips wrapping a breathless harp, notes leaping out a five story window and catching on a blues woman’s voice, heartbeat of Chicago, of the Delta, places I will never know, skin I have never been in but for moments with her words– Bessie, Aretha, Etta, […]
Melancholy Hyperbole 