No throngs of spectators lining the streets.
No streets! Gravel driveway to gravel road
and a single participant, sober as a farm boy can be,
in tenuous balance over rutted pasture,
Read MoreNo throngs of spectators lining the streets.
No streets! Gravel driveway to gravel road
and a single participant, sober as a farm boy can be,
in tenuous balance over rutted pasture,
Read MoreThe surfer sits, straddling the board, slowly moving up and down with the swell as mountains of green water shift beneath in the unfathomed deep.
Read MoreThe hydrants are open—
roll the windows up
and approach the spray,
clear that all joy-filled screams
would be drowned out by the
Water. Pelting the windows.
Read MoreFor Brook Lopez, Center
Up here in stadium section 207, you are ordinary
seven-foot man mountain. L.A. native slope
of bluff ribbed rock.
Read MoreI remember you as God in a fold-out lawn chair.
Clipboard, stopwatch, lemonade at your elbow.
Read MoreHalfway through an alley
smoke & a classic third
quarter Knicks collapse,
the kid upstairs who shit
Read More