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He notices a wrinkle on his tie as he looks down at the opened city.

Series of suicide bombings in Baqubah kills 33 more or less.

In the photo, the man’s left thumb is shredded.

Surrounded by barefoot soldiers.

In the sixth floor of the music building, the pianist brushes a curl form her forehead.

As a child I did not have the words to say no.

The stranger writes in her small orange notebook.

You have a heart of stone, you have no notion of pain.

Let’s frustrate each other. Stay awhile.

Steam rises from behind the counter.

The man’s date remains coy.

Not opposed, but impress me.

A look of light indifference.

Locks of light brown hair fall down her shoulders in waves.

The girl at the register keeps working, the boy watches, frustrated.

As if, if given a chance, he would speak.

Before anything else, she removes her hair clip.

Falling into this ocean as easy as stepping into a light wind.

The piping in the ceiling exposed in the postmodern fashion.

They like it okay.

There are enough random glances to build a life out of.

The stranger writes in her small orange notebook as if entranced.

Her favorite kinds of men are scientists, but he stays anyway and asks about her book of puzzles.

The young pianist brushes a curl from her forehead imagining the future’s concert halls.

Somewhere in Oakland.

The first patrons at the new café look unsure.

A place is not real until love happens there.

It is not a hometown until you’ve buried a loved one in it.

She removes her hair clip and puts her fingers on the ivory keys.

Just stay here.

I start writing love songs all the time,
“Ok goodnight”
sounds American.

Like the place “us”
was born in.

The Telegraph avenue part of me is always
wondering.
The edge of that awning, above the
smoke shop,

transitions into a flock of crows.
Everything gets small and far
eventually.

Seriously, stay.

Let modernity go. Watch
the pathogenesis of our collective groupmind.
I love the small pieces that fall off
that we find later.

At the top of Grizzly Peak, the girl’s coat.

A handful of rain held out for him to try,
to negate, deny,
or squander.

It means I start stealing more,
like a child.

Like knowing my absence
and liking its outside.

Ours are the clouds splayed across the sky
suggesting deep breath.
Reckless range of song or
anything that moves.
All my nouns, go.

The place is that place
where they say you can find yourself.

A road to the empty center
of a rose.
The portrait of a common hand.
You’ve heard this already but

When he uses the device he can
hear his heart contracting.
Look, we can move to Russia.
What if I made you taste this as blue?

I’ll start over
as an older man

who met you at the right time this time,
knows all about the small
delays between breaths and
can let you touch them.

Mr. Jared Muskat was kind enough to invite us onto his show this past Sunday. Our first foray into internet radio was a lot of fun. Jared hosts poetry hour at KSDT every Sunday from 5 – 6pm and you can listen to it at ksdt.ucsd.edu. On the file in the link I posted above, you have to skip ahead a little bit to get to the actual show, which starts just after the jazz, I think. There are a few minutes at the beginning where it’s just filler music. During the show I made a statistical mistake and I’d like to set the record straight here: It was more like 5+ years, not 3 or 4; we were kids when we started dating and by the end we were both bona fide young adults.

Guest Appearances by Ian Schimmelfennig, Richard Chiem, Taylor Katz and Jesús Castillo