Today is Saturday the tenth day of the month of February twenty twenty-three. It’s morning once again.   And with no witnesses for birth, the morning undoes itself once again: The sun doesn’t disappoint, bright and focused, the air breaks open.   And because it’s Texas, uncertainty’s face is nothing new.   The humidity makes the impulse of love the red wash of the dark room, I can see us clearly.   The air is...

My love, may I ask this pandemic to return to its abode with the thorns of unwelcome gift–spiked red-eyed bouquet of dreads to caress our land. This visitor shouldn’t impose his will on the holder of deeds, stroking the hair of the young, leaving the old panting until their last breath. Maybe you’ll remember — when this is all gone and forgotten, who slipped out from the darkness of night to find your face alone....

How many times must I fall from my toe against your feet Before I count my teeth with my tongue, Mr. Despot? My expectations such as are your countrymen’s respite, How many declining expectations on account of fiat? We winged our dreams in great heights to herald our hopes, We must now jettison all aspirations to accommodate fear, Where freedom has lost all responsibility to bear, Whose aspiration inspires such thuggery, succumb to your dopes?...