h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





and so is the wind
and so are the oleanders
the wind is bothering.
The porch light is no longer

anything but Mexican.
It’s true; tonight
is full of this miracle.
The river

is finally Mexican and
the house we live in, the bar
at the corner and the rocks
in the yard. The car is Mexican,
the highway, the gas tank,

your shoes. Mexican
as the stoplight, the cat
skittling across the yard,
as the 7-11 and the father
you thought had forgotten.

What isn’t Mexican,
here, my love, tonight?
All thinking has turned

Mexican and don’t forget the cops
and the bodies of
Wal-Mart shoppers—all
of them, I am pleased to announce,

are Mexican. Tonight, how
do you pay your bills?
In Mexican.
How did you hurt
your hand? Mexican.
What did you say?
How do I love you?
Mexican. Mexican.


Sorry to bother you, especially in this time of

Though we’ve often passed on airplanes, at the library, in the desert, I’ve never

I am writing to you, heart heavy with the pain of generations of

First allow me to introduce my colleagues and their

Let’s be honest: that dog had already

And we really didn’t know that insects

I agree, the arguments for the first attack seemed

Moreover, the sun gets very hot during these months, would it be too much

In the ring, most boxers

Vodka itself is not so terrible if

The tobacco industry has systematically

You see, if I had only been ten minutes earlier,

The toaster and the hairdryer are indeed flawed appliances but

It only took one despot, a painting by Degas, and an angry mistress to

War, to many of us here in the United States, seems a bit

Please, think of the

How much would it take to

From now on, I will

I can guarantee, not only Geronimo and his ghost,

This is to advise you that you are not to come within

Without further adieu,


The right hand always says no problem—help yourself.  
The left hand is, oddly, never seen eating.

The right hand is tall.
The left hand is short.

The left hand goes for rides with men.
The right hand does like a cocktail.

The right hand checks email, writes about Harold Pinter, his fascination
with the abject, so many hobos and trashcan scenery,
but sorry the vacuum is a little loud right now?
While the cord lashes itself back into its hole, the left hand
remembers its ex, swinging at the policeman, and the phonebook falling
into the dishwater.

The right hand in the daytime says ask the dry cleaner about the spot and the button
and at night the left hand, shawled with streetlight, uses pay phones
to call people in another country.

The right hand feels angry when the car is towed for sloppy parking,
therefore the left hand is really not going to mention that the rake broke
when it was left in the driveway.

The left hand gets some tattoos.
The right hand refrains from saying this seems inappropriate.

The left hand will not mention it used to eat peanut butter
with a spoon in the aisles then return the jar to the shelf.

Meanwhile, the right hand can’t stop thinking about its marriage,
its fears for its children, the way its arms have gotten scaly with age,
the perpetual ugliness of feet, the neighbors’ lousy pitbull.

The right hand at Christmas will give the left hand its old car
and the left hand will buy the right
some lovely video games for Christmas where you can build a house
and go shopping.

The right hand reads an instruction manual thoroughly
while the left hand’s heart breaks at the sight of the red gladioli
at sunset out the kitchen window.

The left hand loves bathtime with the right hand’s children.
Afterward, the right hand will kiss them goodnight.

The right hands over wages.
The left hand says thank you.

The right hand worries about the holes
in the ozone and the left goes to faith healers.
The left wants to go back to where its mother lives.
and the right hand would say, if it spoke about these things, I need you.
The left hand would pretend it didn’t hear.


This much was known: 
It was large and largely dry.
It was called terrarium-like by experts.
At first, I felt it slowly growing
the requisite cactus and coast.
I wrote letters to the then president
but he vacationed inside me for months at a time.
I can’t say Galveston was anything
other than sweet heat and water,
though Dallas was a bitch until I passed it.
It was the fighter jets that got better and better.
They came to appreciate me too.
In those fabulous formations they swooned
curlicues on those bluest skies,
burning elaborate fuels like there was no tomorrow.
“Dear President,
the streets of downtown El Paso
are quite dirty and packed with people
vagrantly wandering.”
He was photographed
inside me, with chainsaw,
concerned about longhorns.
I wanted something
Even thought the dollar stores simmered
like hens on their nests of cleaning supplies,
spatulas, and hair ties.
“Dear President,
I had wanted something, I don’t know,
prettier for myself by this age.
Please advise.”
Meanwhile, men unscrolled miles
of scotchguarded stuff.
Ezekial Hernandez was shot
herding goats and Krispy Kremes
blindsided everyone. But I was younger then,
before the daring, handsome surgeon
who wore cowboy boots,
before the long convalescence
and all that doctorly handholding.


Copyright © 2009 Literary Pool, Inc.