Coming Home After a Tsunami

Some days I wake up inside a whirlpool
of boats and houses and trees and dogs and people,
and my missing sister is there too:
spinning, spinning, her small mouth open
and fish are popping out of her.
Yes, my sister is a home for fish.
Who would have thought.

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He built a ticky-tacky shack on the market place 

and charged 5 bucks for cat-telling fortunes

a trumpet playing strumpet reached into her bag

a bulldog jumped out and started a World War 3

When Satchmo’s ghost refused enlistment 3 its later

all cats on Earth — telepathically warned by Bill’s mouser —

wary of vampire dogs, wolf man jazz, flying fish,

chicken feet and Dixie minstrels in a trombone parade

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Barcelona 1966: Working Women

In the Barrio Gotico, Tony, lately jilted by his American girl friend, groaned after tapas and too much peseta-a-glass wine, “I need a woman.” So we, a couple with sex guaranteed, followed him here, to what is known as the Barrio Chino, to the notorious Calle Robador to support his search for a paid partner. Robador is narrow, and from the balconies above, laundry banners it, signalling with sheets, shirts, and children’s clothes that families live here too, that women do laundry here, keep house here.

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