People don’t want to hear about how hopeless it was between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, by Fallujah. When they ask me how it was over there what they are really asking is: What was it like to be that powerful, to hold lives in your hands? … read more.
My father died at the Thunderbird Motel on Flood Hope Road. According to documents, he was beaten over a cigarette or a prostitute. I prefer the cigarette. I considered it an Indian death myself, while walking along the country roads of my reservation… read more.
Given a year adrift on the cold Pacific, the broken cities arrive
crushed, splintered, with all that the water upended
and carried out to sea, all that we might gather from the waves
washing in to the iceplant dunes along the California coast… read more.
This morning the sky takes on the look of one of those inspirational calendars,
all illuminated-edged cumulous with light rays stabbing through like purifying swords,
His Glory in pastel script right about where my neighbor’s SUVs are parked out back… read more.