Kevin Simmonds

Kevin Simmonds is a San Francisco-based writer and musician originally from New Orleans. His writing has appeared in Asia Literary Review, Cincinnati Review, FIELD, jubilat, The Moth, Pank, and elsewhere. His second collection, Bend to it, appeared from Salmon Poetry in March 2014. He wrote the music for Hope: Living and Loving with HIV in Jamaica, which won a 2009 Emmy Award, and Voices of Haiti: A Post-Quake Odyssey in Verse, both commissioned by the Pulitzer Center. Most recently, he received the Edward Stanley Award from Prairie Schooner and a Creative Work Fund commission for the Japanese noh-inspired theatre work Emmett Till, a river. He lives in San Francisco and northern Japan.


Vesper by Kevin Simmonds

  The police steal a black boy’s songs they steal them between the knees in his back all the asphalt he’s seen The police steal songs from those with bass in their skin clicking their tongues in belligerence & blight bullets frowning the frown of a dead star night somebody […]


McQueen by Kevin Simmonds

  shame is violence you knew that I know you through the artillery of your garments each bodice ripped braised in mud the holy emaciation the grateful material ripcord hemmed in poor thing     Kevin Simmonds is a San Francisco-based writer and musician originally from New Orleans. His writing […]


Cage by Kevin Simmonds

  John Cage was a mycologist, someone who collects & consumes mushrooms. I studied John Cage in music school. I didn’t think much of the connection between mushrooms & music. There are many connections. John Cage knew the reticulum, tubes & teeth. John Cage knew the gills, striations & pores. […]


Something Owed by Kevin Simmonds

  Soon as Ella began beading the pearl-perfect tune white woman knew for sure what she could do Soon as Ella spun her slender-waisted tone white woman knew why she’d sought the voice Her powdered face her lonely table A battered wife returned home to the husband she’d kill Summer, […]


Phu Quoc by Kevin Simmonds

  Evensong Luc calling me to the water The breeze carrying his drunken voice through the mosquito netting where the bed numbs my body sheets nearly white as the sand’s blank stare We are terrestrial The bright octaves of our music relinquishing nothing in its ascendance Men on their backs […]