English 2367.02 Common Place

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There was a storm. Then there wasn’t.

This is a memory of the Coast: to each his own

They gave me summer--we threw stones & peed

They use words like "casualties" to speak of murder.

Don't you know the size of your library is in inverse proportion to the size of your penis?

I’ll correct you and tell you it’s about history which is the blacksmith of our tongues. Our eyes.

When I stop by McDonalds for a cheeseburger, no one suspects what I am.

The sun glitters spectacular as is the custom on May afternoons in Texas and yet comes through the years as a dull, smoky whiteness in the trees here in the photograph I am tired of looking at.

we were losing our bodies— digitized salt of bytes and speed we were becoming a powder—

The one who lobs piss from the overpass, one who siphons gasoline, huffs hours crumpled in wood sheds, in warm oblivion, they’re perfecting crotch grab and spit, and got a mean pick and roll going on.

They are all sweat, hustle, break, forgetting minutes, hours, deaths they’ve inhaled

You can get there from here, though there’s no going home.

Port Hudson where their bodies swelled and blackened beneath the sun—unburied

I have never wanted another life, but I know the story of pursuit: the dream of a gate standing open, a grill and folding chairs, a new yard boxed in light.