Posted in Featured, Poetry

Can you see the future
like you feel the wind
in your hair-sprayed perm
and under your young knees,
pedaling your bike through
a red Memphis evening
because brother Kenny stole another go-kart?

When you pass the 32nd pothole from the trailer park
across from Pop’s “pretty good” liquor store,
do you envision log cabin countrysides,
or have you always known about
the cigarette college fund?

Posted in Featured, Poetry

if it wasn’t for the old ones,
we’d be dancing through this sickness
with zinfandel wine and stacks of
rice, beans, coffee, milk,
all the necessities to survive
isolation

while making a cup of coffee i wonder
if our grandmothers will die before we are able
to buy them anymore flowers.
every Easter my mother gives Grandmama
white lilies, which could represent doves, signs
of salvation, or any other kind of metaphorical bullshit.
i’ll add my own metaphor: my grandmother’s face,
planted in soil. three lily faces are sleeping
inside a plastic pot