"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



back to the resort where turtles are massaged

by samoans  +young women vie for position on

cabana-boys tan laps   a decadent petit bourgeois

enclave  off a coastal hi-way


In a hospital close by  there is a hospice   where

visitors say things like: what  no IV?  no feeding tube?

as if these are choices in the Eaton’s catalogue   then

they eat the patient’s lunch  +talk loudly   mostly to avoid

the green pallor  fevered brow  and death rattle  of the man

in the bed


He will not get out of here alive   they will return to pink

stucco  +heated front walks   but I adore the man in the bed

+ just wish the prattle would end   how about some morphine  

people?  can a dying man not get a little high?   They look me

in the eye  they say: let us worry about the important stuff

old bitch  


so I get into my cab  +head back to the airport   on the way  the

sweet haitian driver whose wife has cancer  talks nonstop  about

jesus  and faith  and the lack thereof   and a vengeful God who has

placed us on a collision course with apocalypse   simply because

he can




FALL 2018


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