The Write Launch, February 2018









"You mailed me dead sunflowers for my birthday"













Politicians singing gospel on Capitol steps

Mahalia, they’ll say, Mahalia we love you

California screeches East

Calling her sister coast in a Whitmanic-Yawp

Collapsible highways of the West

Fold upon themselves like paper maps

Sealed packaged and dropped








Shoeless in the frozen foothills

Padding to another hotel room

To rest my head on another’s chest

And lay naked, listening to The Heart of Saturday Night