Jose Padua: On the Loving Grace of Well-Oiled Machines
but maybe that’s how
patriarchy works,
so fast and efficient
when it comes to killing,
so in love with the magic
of finding beautiful new worlds
to destroy
Jose Padua: In Contemplation of the Failure of Empires
ready for everything
in the world that’s dim, dark,
shady and beautiful; ready for
the city that moves us like a river
Jose Padua: Around the Corner from the Neighborhood Convenience Store and Four Thousand Miles from the Streets of Barcelona
the good ole boy,
sitting up high in
his pickup truck
and smiling smugly
Jose Padua: Where I’m From And The End Of These Days of Smooth Skin
Walk so that everyone knows where you’ve been
and where you’re going, weathering
both trouble and affection, the gravel roads
turning into dirt.
Jose Padua: It Was the Summer After the Summer of Love
it’s the first time in my life
that I’ve ever had an image
or maybe it just an idea
(which was still bad enough)
of my parents doing it,
having sex, grabbing each other
Jose Padua: The Art of Moving or Alternate Interpretations of an Old Blues Song
Back then, whether or not you agreed with the white man, you didn’t question him, because that meant trouble and my family didn’t want trouble with anyone.
Jose Padua: Walking to Prospect Hill and Back on These Still Slow Days of Spring
our days growing warmer, our nights
shorter as we cross paths with every-
thing that lives and breathes or flies
Jose Padua: And the Stars Shine Like Dim Light Bulbs at the Old Motel Downtown
yes there are stars
in the sky and even though they are dim
and don’t shine for us it is by their light
that sometimes with a little luck and a little
persistence we get where we’re going anyway.
Jose Padua: At the Old Jail Downtown
Walking the creaky wooden
floorboards on the second
floor of the museum
at the old jail downtown,
we’re taken back in time…
Jose Padua: Come Play in the Milky Night
At the IHOP in Winchester one night, we were paying for our dinner when the young woman behind the cash register noticed that my young son was looking at something … Continue reading
Michael Simms: Blurbing Jose
Jose Padua’s poems are the twitch of the tail of the cat stalking the mouse of your unconscious.
Jose Padua: Home Sorrow and the Million Ways We Make It Through the World
That weekend was one of those that reminded us of what we love about living in the northern Shenandoah Valley—namely, events like the performance in Castleton, Virginia, some twenty-five miles … Continue reading
Jose Padua: From the Belly to the Head
In my immigrant culture
the custom was for children to live at home with
the family, to contribute to that home, and continue
to do so until they had families of their own,
but I never said that, never explained, never
wanted to say my people do things differently
Jose Padua: Helltown
Back in the familiar wilderness of tattoo parlors and auto parts stores, the cheap motels where there’s always a vacancy, the streets so dry and sunny you can almost feel … Continue reading
