Gold Medal
What do you think on that podium you’ve worked all your life to mount...
My Father’s Razor; Gold Medal, ; The Warehouse; The Day the Music Died; The Apartment
How I Write
First thing, I wake up. At 76 not being dead is essential. After breakfast I read poetry, novels, essays, everything. They’re all a part of my writing process.
Boricuamericano; A stop on the hunt for alcapurrias; I love The Smoke and my people; Every car model is the same if you get to the bones of it
When I am on coffee number four. I have my father’s mouth whistle through brown slits. I liked his smile most when he was around mamí, his sisters.
This Isn’t the End; I Think I’m Getting Stronger When I’m Weak Enough; The Dying Day Doesn’t Belong to Me; When I Reach for Something I’m Not Holding On to Anything; Sacrifice
The Dying Day Doesn’t Belong to Me
THE ONE-NIGHTER; VIRGINIA ROSE; MAPLE MAN; RECOVERY; BEWARE THE MAN
All the sap dripped from him.
Heirs licked the sweetness.
What We Leave Uncounted; She Draws Places She Hasn’t Been; Things Still Waiting to Be Finished; Amateur Fossils of the Sleepless Night; Instructions for Listening to Silence
If dreams left bones I would sift them gently from the sheets. A rib of moonlight.