Category Archives: poetry 2000’s


In peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons.

You have to leave this warm state of oranges,
for a burning desert. The twenty years of service
in tattered camouflage, but fourteen years
since you finished wiping coarse sand off your boots,
does not satisfy leaders, wearing shiny suits,
starched shirts and red, white and blue
ties, sitting in clean, corner offices in the pentagon;
so they hand you orders for deployment.

On the edge of a brown couch, you lean down to knot
black shined boots, reflecting olive fingers, as you run
thin laces through metal clips. Next, you slide coat buttons
into each open hole, while your sons observe this ritual,
nervous and impatient, they ambush you with hugs;
their ages combined barely breaking eleven. You set them down,
and walk to the car with my sister;
she wraps her arms around you and squeezes.

I wrote this for a class in 2004 and is a part of bigger poem titled democracy.



So shoot us or feed us, Big Man. We are very tired. Feed us or kill us quickly–or else what good are you?
The Crying For A Vision

A man muddied, clothes torn
sits alone in a dark alley with shards
of glass around and stomach denied wine
drifting from an open dumpster. The man
rises to his feet, then empties onto
the sidewalk. He slowly drags one leg
after the other, passing buildings, each with
boards in place where windows used
to stand. He stops and passes through
the space between two factories. He enters
the first from the back exit. The man
reaches the foot of some steps, he grabs
the hand rail and pulls himself up a floor.
He stares at the rotted door with a tag
that reflects his name. –Five years earlier,

the man types, fingers rapidly pushing
buttons, at a computer in his office. He sends
an E-mail to the president of the company,
outlining, point for point, faults created
by a slight downfall in the stock market.
The man, hoping the leaders, like FDR,
can prepare them to prevent a major loss
of jobs. The president reads the message
like a tip from his business manager,
and spreads the word to other top stock
holders.– The man pulls a soiled newspaper
out from under his shirt and focuses
on a picture of the company’s former leaders
sitting around a table, drinking warm
coffee with the president of the U.S.

I wrote this for a class in 2004 and is a part of bigger poem titled democracy.

Phone Call

A broken, bloodied body,
delivered in the form of a phone call. Not
surprised, I ask about your current condition.
The reply, you are hung over in the hospital,
feet up, head aching, lungs too crushed to spew
venom’s that poisoned your gut. I wondered
when I would receive this spoken telegram of your mistakes.

This time, your actions were too inebriated to dodge
the bull of disaster, leaving you gored and lying
face down in a ditch; the ambulance arrived
before you became another matador statistic.
Two minutes after I hear you are stable, I bow
over my bed, hands linked, begging for,
more chances to see you.



Written in 2004 for a family member.


T0: N.H.


I stood in green grass
under a backyard clothesline,
my nose smelling blueberry
muffins wafting from an open
window, my eyes scanning, starting
with the white, rusting shed, then your legs,
finishing at the ripe garden.


In your tar-affected voice,
you taught me the rules of baseball;
do not swing the plastic bat at a first
pitch, keep an eye on the hole filled
ball, be aware of the actions of other
base runners, and regardless of outcome,
make sure to respect every player.


I gripped my bat, wise of where
to hit the mint-tinted wiffle ball.
You wound up, prepared to pitch,
ready to do what you never could
with my father and his brother.
The pitch came off of your fingers and I
cracked it over the gray back fence.



Wrote this back in my undergrad, 2003, read it at my grandmothers memorial service. It’s a close one to my heart.

Consummation of (our) Love

 beats from the heart
 (of your) drum, penetrating
 a solid skeletal chamber,
 cutting layers of protective
 insulation. Emerging
 from outer cells.
diffuses into a room,
 mostly flowing through
 the canal connecting sound
 to the center of (my) soft
 membrane that sorts choice
 between fun, lust and love.
thumps with Miles
 Davis, a drum beat
 to harmonize with trumpet
 fusion, creating a lasting
 moment (between us), 30
 seconds after the music stops.
—————————————————————————————————————————————— Originally published in the e-zine “Lunarosity” in March 2004. The e-zine is no longer online.