Purging the Reservoir

My neck tarnished

stretches of veins collapsing around the dirt that holds fast to my collar.

Riches from a blue sky have deemed my whiteness in such a way that…I wish the lies to be truth.

white n black

And, thus I sit in my poor excuse at living unassisted.

A whitewash for my migrant legacy.

Opening a chasm between…

pools for swimming

and swimming pools to be emptied.


Crumbling at the Edges

I live among a den of thieves

And, they all believe to be…me.

No saint.  No sinner.

Nor, recluse or debutante.

Just an image of more and more wants.

Life, for people, begins to crumble on the edges; they don’t realize it.

Dorothea Lange