“There was a lot about the cycle I couldn’t tell by looking at it—like, how the rain would soak the seat through that slash in the faux leather, and I’d have a wet ass for a month. And how the chain would pop off the chain-ring unpredictably, and I’d get grease on my hands from resetting it. All I knew was that I loved that bike the second I saw it. My Polish angel explained that it was NOT guaranteed: after I pedaled it off the lot, I was on my own. 35 Euro. Sold.”–from Bicycles, Beer, and the Body
Check out two videos from this reading in 2015, “Gemini’s ginned up as if for war–” and “America.”
Find my poems in a digital habitat here.
“Your ass in that chair, / there on the patio in the dark of a Wednesday, / bark of the bougainvillea eaten silent by loopers…”
A person is going to be a poet, and no poet makes a living at it, but it is a vocation.