i am a broken plastic superhero i was so captain america but the orgies of tornadoes and the prophecies from the underground shelters have disintegrated my shield no one wants to reach out give it is all take the

In 1970, after dropping out of college in Washington, D.C., I moved to Baltimore where I lived in a row home still heated by a coal furnace on West

The evening before, sands were a flea market. Bronze pen shells, necklaces of barnacles, Purple urchins, mottled purse crabs, spotted like the barrels of paint horses, ivory bivalves picked clean as steamers after the feast. Shoppers

West of the Park I grew up in DC on the other side of 16th Street in Rock Creek Park. I was lucky to be born on the ‘right side’ of 16th Street. That was

It will be a hot night; They all are in August On the West Baltimore streets. Where people die and rats live. The sun is setting; Reds and deep purples Like a Ravens jersey painted

Same guy, ponytail now gray, still strong, enduring as the word, scrappy. Larry the legend, busted ass, eight hours in the mill, then, on sweltering afternoons, hammered shingles onto steep roofs, hit the bar at nightfall, sucked down a few beers, did

Thunder in Baltimore, The storm floats in Like the cruise ships at the inner harbor. Rain follows thunder Even as lightning precedes it. But the downpour will not end the reign of heat. Hot nights

hours of unhappiness imbuing the words I find on the sidewalk on walls on the fuzzy writing on the face of the moon with some great Shakespearean empyrean importance while in truth what we have

TV Poem political dishwater thrown from the TV all of us covered with debris smelling of someone else's point of view I'd take my shoe to the screen but I want to see NCIS I guess get a