No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Now, he wants a new trainer, but I am his father. In these hands, I held the infant version of that boy, the same hands caught his fists as I knelt before him, taught him to sink his weight, turn over the punch.
i miss what i cannot have
Bone-weary stylus, embraced By her maroon stained metacarpus, Traces familiar trails- In attempt to recall His tender waves.
If I fled, I’d be found. If I bled, I’d be bound.
If I escaped, I’d be lost. If I cried, I’d be tossed.
I was born in a burning house.
A man with a face by Tintoretto told me that his feet were cold and that he wondered would I trade my shoes for his. Nord Americano, he said, pointing at my green-piped black Nike Jokers.