Richard Modiano, a poet, artist, comrade, and native of Los Angeles, who served as Executive Director of Beyond Baroque Literary/Arts Center from 2010 to 2019, is a revered name. He was elected Vice President of the California State Poetry Society in 2019, and The Huffington Post named him as one of 200 people doing the…
Take an X-ray of the sun, you’ll find. a Rainier cherryat its yellow heart, fireskinned and ripe with reaching.But in the sunlesslush green mosses where the fruitis born, bucketfulsof sweetness only bring to mindvareniki s vishnami,cherry dumplings, made on a boardover the bathtubwe called a kitchen table. I watched my mama workflour deep into the…
Faith. There’s this great darknessin a world that we are suppose to callluminous,a place full of candles at nightburning brightbut only within their insignificant halos Sometimes we can see only some tiny portionsof itsometimes nothing at all… When you see a fireflyjust remember that we feel like thatmost of the time –lighting our journey to…
Simla India Poem (1931) –for William L. Shirer* there was nothing sporting about the human beast of burden who pulledand pulled the rickshawsup and down the steep hills –until their lungs gave out …
MY Father’s Basement . bare bulbstrung on a wirefrom the floor beam overheadcrawl space hiddenfrom the upstairs noiseilluminated like the backof a closet behind the clothes decayed leavesthe smell of warped woodbarely enough spacefor his rotting benchmy mother’s old pickle jarsarranged on two-by-fourscircling the cinder block each jar labeledby his craftsman’s handswith the permanenceof black…
Note to Self. If you’ve never doubted the integrity of yoursuperiors or their right to demand your obediencenor felt the sting of wishing for something thatcould not be found on department store shelvesor voting ballots – If you’ve never fallen so deeply in love that itseemed that you had been sleep walking through lifeuntil that…
Whispers in the Dust Don’t mock my flat chest or empty stomachWe didn’t eat for years when we crossed the desertOur people were left as crystalized markersSand blown to glassA woman holding a babyA child bending to pick up a mirageWe died in crystal and came back in duneHigh and mighty, wind swept in regretThey…
Summer Storm .Bamboo screen thin, the streets of VeniceShine through the wasting water. Stagnant love and harmony of goddessDistill between cracked fingertips Imported rose water burns fleshSilk parasol smokes in hazy sun. Alongside worn tundra palette and theMadonna’s stone jugThe muse of ItalySpeaks by rubbing together grape vine branchesSound of smoky summer wine. . Villa…
ScherzoCity. Smashing crashing drumbeats surround, Foot stomping prophets’ pronouncements profound. Scarring jarring thundering storms,Teary preachers rapidly reborn. Wild-eyed believers Are admitted for free. Scowling skeptics …
How the Fog Can Matter. Mid-day, a slightest shivering mistbut still the sunstaring over your shoulder,those wisps stealingacross peripheral fieldslike several clever students late for class. The professor with the leathery lipsperched in the cottonwoodthat commands the nearby hillsideblows his smoketo remind you of all thosevariously true theologies. A cedar-sided shacktwo hundred yards beyond the…
a self taught genius(for Thornton Dial, Sr.) “Learning is borrowed knowledge, genius is knowledge innate and quite our own.” (Edward Young, Conjectures on Original Composition) birds got to have somewhere to roost, no wonder grandpa collected all those truck tires, full of rain water and lizards, pieces of hood from an old Chevrolet, an old…
A Malady of Moving Parts . Most things may seem crucial nowin ways they didn’t always. It’s age–that makes it so. After a while,you may begin to see life as a skin condition which salves and lotionsdo not heal. Or what else? A malady of your moving parts? Maybe the streetswhere you ran your personal…
