top of page

Birth of a Hero

I am forever cursed to recall

the blood-stained ring

from the kid who never rose from the fall.


Haunted by the silence that pierced the screaming squall,

the borough jewel’s last seconds standing

I am forever cursed to recall


glassy eyes, near shut, unafraid of the assault

of my punches. Heavier than granite, he collapsed after the ding.

The kid who never rose from the fall


had a heart stronger than his flesh. My fists pound into the wall

until they bleed, praying to feel an ounce of his pain. My sin

I am forever cursed to recall


every time I am mentioned as the victor. The idol

I will never be laid in mahogany. A procession following

the kid who never rose from the fall.


The line of cars drove by his towering mural.

A tribute from the city that lowered their warrior down as a king.

Forever willing to recall

the hero who never rose from the fall.


Recent Posts

See All

Pure Silence

Pure silence is an abandoned theater, echoing with the screams of a grindhouse film nobody remembers.

Illusion of Progress

After Larry Levis’s “Airplanes” I grab a torch and go burn hay bales to a pile, and stare at the glowing remains until cloves grow from the ashes. This never happens. I turn twenty-seven somewhere, kn

Why the Wildflowers Bloom

Across the drought-dried field, vultures perched on hay bales, wings twitching with anticipation as a road-trapped body took its last breath. The wake was swift. Muscles to guts, a legacy was devoured

Comments


bottom of page