The smoke billowing from my poetry journalwill descend back to the pageafter I finish the poem. Scribing that which burns onto the page from my heart,seared into immortality,life is short, and memory is shorter. What returns, is the desire to rile,or...

we was them whatwas discarded,you ‘n’ me,what waspulledout the gardenlest we grewamongmore respectablebloomsand spoiledthe papa’sviewwe was whatwas wasted,cursedlike the matchthat burnedhis fingers‘n’ tossedto the windlike somethingused upgood fornothin’he said“ain’t shit”“ain’t gonna do,ain’t gonna begoddamnednothin...”we was themwhat knowedthe poorthe disenfranchisedthe...