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The Fog

I had an experience once, riding in a Buick and winding up in San Francisco. It was 1962 and I hardly recall what we...

LISTENING TO FUCKING

On one side I hear the neighbors fuck and on the other side I hear them fuck too. The ones over here, the bitch screams it loud because...

Home of the Brave

It is 1955. My mother, 25 years-old with long, swept back chestnut curls, deep dimples and pearly teeth, is wearing an apron over her...

Exit Ninety-three

On a morning when the sky nearly brushes my hair, I cross the parking lot dodging a cyclist in a red T-shirt. He barely...

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Grab Bag

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Oogling Myself

Glass Beach Thieves

LISTENING TO FUCKING

POETIC NOISE

The poem I couldn’t write

ANYWHERE BUT HERE

WHAT I AM

Tooth and Nail