I cannot be a poet

This poem mostly wrote itself while, after reading a Facebook post, I thought about the (perceived) rights of poets to speak about issues. I cannot be a poet No, I cannot be a poet. From the endless fount of issues that may plague the skin of my brothers, I can't write a poem about any … Continue reading I cannot be a poet



How many things can you call dirty? Is dirty the quivering of bodies when they make love without the consent of the hundreds whose homes are as warm as a bucket of ice cubes? Is dirty the act of seeking love on your own terms? Is dirty the act of avoiding a four-legged prison with … Continue reading Dirty