Love, like light, has no mass, is information. Not that which is found in books, newspapers, sacred texts: Suns laugh at our quest for knowledge. Imagine a poem with no beginning or end, no author or reader, words or meaning—
Jeff Bezos did not leave the planet any better than he found it, though he is rich enough to leave it and return, alive. As I watch the skies, greedy mosquitos stalk me like a herd of tiny buffalo.
If you're looking for glamor, doing the most good for people and the planet may not be the place to find it.
My early poems aspired to Keats and Blake; were about magic, dreams, and heartbreak. Most rhymed, were trite, and told more than showed; rolled off the tongue, no taste of the acid down below.
Tonight I'll dream that a colony of ants has dragged me out to sea, where I discover my belongings and I have become so much flotsam and jetsam.
I want to smash a violin on the tree it was made from. To soak up the blood of martyrs with my eyes, die a glorious death and live on, weeping, sweating blood. It's 118 in Siberia.
I had a dream where from an impossible height I took in all the splendor and all the pain we’ve learned to live with.
Changing the language we use when speaking about injustice does not, in and of itself, overturn the injustice.
In Xinjiang, 7,000-miles away, a morning sun, reflecting off the glasses of early risers, the windshields of commuters, is so bright as to redact last night’s graffiti: Down with Xi.
I’ve been hearing Save the Rainforest since I was small enough to sleep in the safety of my parent’s bed or snuggled with stuffed animals— pandas, giraffes, monkeys, frogs;
When children by gunfire die, when the dreamer and the warden clash, when statues betray the sculptor, we proclaim This is not who we are.
The flags are at full-staff Though Jackeline is dead Of dehydration And the Guatemalan boy whose name Has not been released Is dead Of the flu—
