Winter Birds
The tiny little bird feet
Pressed into the snow
Beside my foot
Or my foot beside of them
For they were here
Before and always
The tiny little bird feet
Pressed into the snow
Beside my foot
Or my foot beside of them
For they were here
Before and always
for my father
a life spent by the dirty river
building vessels barefoot and wild
where wildflowers bend verily
atop rivulets and driftwood
your father bent over the hull
smelling of cedar shavings and tar
your mother sewing shirts in the wind
you sit perched in denim on haunches
at the edge of your floating home
you are amidst brothers
all bickering for food
the eldest gone south
you with fish hook grin
another with his fists
the houseboat knocks softly at the ropes
supper smoking from a blackened pot
your mother’s voice crosses the water
your father tries not to smile
a life spent by the dirty river
building vessels barefoot and wild
and all night
the houseboat chewing the ropes
I wake before sunrise in a home
midpoint on Sierra San Juan Cosalá
and walk out to the patio central, wrap
the loud, rough serape round my shoulders,
and pull back the easel’s shroud.
I gaze below to Lake Chapala—
wide and still. Dawn dances
her first light there, then comes
from behind hills to reach
up the highest peaks,
painting them pink and gold.
I mix my own colors on a palette,
but that sacred pink evades my brush.
From the village below, still dark,
a rooster crows. A window light, then two,
then more turn on. I outline
the mountains in sienna brown,
move across the canvas, sketch
in the town, and find the right red for the bird.
It aches— that I can paint his image,
but not the jagged, throaty call.
Too soon, I fold the easel shut.
I grab a plátano from the kitchen,
descend the steep path. Board
the third-class bus to school.
Sit by a woman with a bucket
of fresh frothy milk,
peer in—
and find my pink.
Erasure of an AP News Story, June 4, 2026
DHAKA, Bangladesh (AP) — With his shock of golden hair and trim 700-kilogram 1,500-pound build, Donald Trump has been drawing crowds from across Bangladesh since he arrived at the national zoo last week. The rare albino buffalo became a sensation when a farmer noticed that his blond tuft of hair resembled the distinctive locks of the U.S. president. After a video of the pale horned mammal went viral on social media, large numbers of people started showing up at the farm outside Dhaka to see him for themselves. The animal was originally meant to be slaughtered for the Muslim festival of sacrifice. But citing security concerns, the government ordered him transferred to the zoo in the capital, where large crowds are now braving sweltering heat to see him. On Tuesday, visitors pressed against the fence of the buffalo’s enclosure, filming with their phones as some fathers hoisted small children on their shoulders for a better view. A zoo worker pampered the animal, brushing his hair to one side and hosing him down with water to keep him cool as fans blew on him. “There is a resemblance to Donald Trump in its eyes, hairstyle, and skin color,” said Mohammed Nasim, a student in Dhaka. “And just as Donald Trump has a distinctive personality and lifestyle, this buffalo, after going viral, is now living a similar kind of life, enjoying a lot of attention and special treatment.” Local media reported that the exhibit initially included a sign that said “Donald Trump,” which has since been removed. The zoo curator was fired Saturday, though no official cause was given for the dismissal. Some clearly found the naming in poor taste. “Giving a farm animal the name of one of the world’s most influential leaders was certainly the wrong thing to do,” said Dhaka resident Mohammad Joynal Adedin, who visited the zoo to see the buffalo anyway. “It seems disrespectful. I think the farmer who did this made a poor decision.” The buffalo was sold ahead of the “Feast of Sacrifice.” When Home Minister Salahuddin Ahmed ordered police to take the animal into custody, the authorities refunded the buyer. “Since before Eid, I had been seeing posts on Facebook saying that ‘Donald Trump’ would be sacrificed. Later, I heard that instead of being sacrificed, it had been placed in a zoo,” said Mohammad Habibur Rahman, a visitor to the zoo from the southwestern Bangladeshi city of Jashore. “So, I thought I would come to the zoo and see Donald Trump’ for myself,” he said.
We wander, roam, speed,
merge & punch the pedal
to the floorboards.
We crawl the creosote
like hangry predators
in search of something,
anything better than where
we were, especially if it involves
a wall of beef jerky.
Faces against their
phones, the backseaters
ignore the blurred landscape
while drivers pontificate.
We fill up with gas
hoping the road
can restore the
sense of place
we left behind.
Do you love me or hate me
in a world so split in two?
I trace your name like Braille.
I toss it before I’m through.
You call me soft, and I melt.
You call me weak, and I fight.
I dream of you in color.
I wake to black and white.
We meet in the middle—
where no one wins or lose.
If I could choose, I’d stay.
If I could choose, I’d leave.
But choice is the cruelest mercy
in a world so in between.
A poet in 1601 writes praise songs in secret
about his patron’s 17-year-old niece’s lips,
and in a 1962 novel, a Chinook chief
convinces everyone at the asylum he’s deaf
and mute so they’ll leave him alone.
I don’t understand History and can’t
stand my own past. Neither should have
happened, but both keep roaring.
I’m glad the wind stopped, but I miss
my roof and doors, the way they made me
invisible from outside. I know a janitor
who pretends to have a plate in his head.
He says he wants to be invisible as wallpaper.
Okay, I made him up. He’s the protagonist
in my unpublished novel. He harbors secrets
about himself, about his ex, about enough
to fill a book, which he’s secretly written.
My therapist canceled on me today because
she’s lost her voice, so for now I’ll keep my secrets
though they snarl at me. No one admits
throwing that apple core at the lion
at the zoo, who wakes and yawns when the perp
secretly hoped for a roar. All I know for sure
is that all of us have dirt under our fingernails
or blood on our hands, and all of us are afraid that
something that’s already happened will happen again.
tethered by obligation to my childhood,
the shimmering fantastical oasis,
I recreated in my mind without
any of my father’s presence or vitriolic touch.
I am safe now, while
I skim through comic scans,
achieving dream I never did in childhood,
and I thought it would feel better.
What if I disappeared for a year?
The world would keep turning.
The sun would still rise over crowded highways,
alarm clocks would still drag tired men from bed,
and somewhere a stranger would celebrate a victory
without ever knowing I existed.
Social media would forget me in a week.
Algorithms would find someone else to promote.
The endless stream of noise would continue
without noticing my silence.
Friends would keep living.
Coworkers would keep working.
Bills would still arrive.
Baseball games would still be played.
Life would move forward,
because that is what life does.
And yet…
A few people would notice the empty chair.
A son would wonder why the voice
that always cheered from the stands
had gone quiet.
A wife would notice the missing footsteps
moving through the house at dawn.
A mother would still think of her child.
A friend would still remember a conversation.
A handful of hearts would carry an absence
the world itself would never record.
But what if I disappeared on purpose?
Not to escape.
To build.
To trade distraction for discipline.
To exchange comfort for conviction.
To stop negotiating with the man
I keep promising I will become someday.
What if for one year
I stopped chasing every notification,
every opinion,
every shiny object demanding my attention?
What if I lifted when I didn’t feel like lifting
Studied when I wanted entertainment?
Prayed when I wanted answers?
Read when I wanted escape?
What if I spent three hundred and sixty-five days
keeping promises to myself?
A year later…
my body would be different.
My mind would be different.
My habits would be different.
The mirror would tell a different story.
The scale would tell a different story.
My confidence would tell a different story.
Not because life became easier,
but because I finally stopped expecting it to.
Maybe the greatest change
wouldn’t be visible at all.
Maybe it would be found in quieter places.
In patience.
In wisdom.
In self-control.
In the ability to face uncertainty
without immediately looking for an exit.
Maybe I would discover
that discipline is not punishment.
It’s freedom.
Maybe I would learn
that purpose is not something you find.
It’s something you build.
Brick by brick.
Choice by choice.
Day by day.
And maybe after a year,
I would realize this was never really about muscle,
or money,
or followers,
or recognition.
Maybe it was always about becoming the man
God created me to be.
A stronger body
to serve others.
A sharper mind
to discern truth.
A steadier spirit
to endure hardship.
A deeper faith
to trust Him when the outcome is unclear.
Because Building On Purpose
was never about disappearing from the world.
It was about disappearing from the things
that keep me from becoming who I am called to be.
Closer to God.
Stronger in character.
Clearer in purpose.
And ready to return
not as a different person—
but as the person I was meant to become.
Or maybe…
that the world needs.
