James Diaz lives in New York. His poems have been published in Collective Exile, Underground Books, Orion Headless, Bareback Lit, The Mind[less] Muse, Jellyfish Whispers and The Camel Saloon.
"In the occasional rested, well rested, as four piece, the tone of room"
The story is physical, it seeds into black top, eye buried in the
little unused ground shape, the smile of the person off-shore,
re-experiencing sleep- somber name-nothing touching faith,
the boat with its bread, a woman in light, now the body, with you,
shuts- disclosing its look elsewhere, the sensing- interpolation,
pulse of how time misses the premise/promise- and regains only
half of what went missing- to the kicked about, some separated,
early every next to day, cautious to be kind, even now, when you
meet, and where, those things enlarge, an elemental life, a gray
tone, never forgetting, saying itself, see the content, and feel it spoil,
splits, brings us in it (on our knees) that way.
"There being a lot to say, in way, alongside, gravel and thought for seeds"
Is to not be use to this- bring medical, him- street, string scream,
was not- in a thin, hey guy, aren't some polite, people-police, things,
trash cans (even), are beaten, and brought to the point of fingering
some one- in another city, the same things happen, less interesting,
or more, but the variation is the ‘cubical’ kind-
what stands out wont stand out- if there is only begging,
still, it seems something human has happened, in the backward first
strip, where night sits and doesn't say ‘give you 2 for 10′,
it is the condition of the food, the love, the light which dims-
I never learned all of the things I thought it would be easiest to learn later-
in happiness nothing/everything escapes.