Blue Sky, Part I

They want a poem

about fingertips

dipped in sugar,

how they reek

of blue sky,

even while jazz

muddies up

the corner.


Where scrawls

of Tobago

in tobacco chips,

calling brown from

way back, re-encrusts

the concrete

like Oklahoma



Before we worshipped

the sun, we worshipped

dirt. All that was above us,

brought us fire.


But sometimes

just the pale drought

of blue sky.



Je Suis Pablo Escobar


With thanks to Narcos

Dodge Caravans pinch sunsets of pink gulf coasts

closer. So crawls traffic, Medellin to Pensacola—

on all fours. Drift of pickup trucks drag South Pole

equator-bound, while detectives echo-locate

cell phones atop alkaline canopies—gash

of jet fuel tugs a bow over drug-lord’s

last words to mama. Turnt


this Jungle Book to snow showers, ice

capades divot in purple light of nightclub floor. Disco balls

huffed up, cut with credit cards down to latitudes—

Javier tripping refugee glass


distending in champagne lounge door. His

brown face crawling back to me across

Miami coffee tables, Chevy tire-tracks

like lines of TV static

in the storm.