Article Needs Work

2/ Here. To prove      the word. Like      tracing the      edge of my      shadow on      paper. Like.

It was gray. There was no gruel for hours, years. All around me drone of a dead world. Dry cold rocks in my bed, rocks of hours, years. The skin sank to the skeleton and stuck, dry. Then the stream of celery soaked my face clean. A lump of potato lit on the back of…

– the framing of mortal confusion in Rudolfo A. Anaya's Bless Me, Ultima – Bless Me, Ultima, a first novel by Rudolfo A. Anaya, winner of the Second Annual Premio Quinte Sol in 1971 and now in its fifth printing, is touted in its jacket blurbs as being already a "classic in Chicano Literature." For…

They seem to be what they are harvesting: Rumps, elbows, hips clustering Plumply in the sun, a fuss of shines Wining from the ovals of their elbows. The brush plucks them from a tied vine. Such roundness, such a sound vintage Of circles, such a work of pure spheres! Flesh and shadow mesh inside each…

Morning so bright, Fed and forgotten, The house full of flowers: Sorb apple and dog-rose. By instinct realize and call it The next best thing. It’s locked in the mind. It would be a wonderful thing to do. In your harp concerto We would find a world very much like our own, Where graves are…

for Bartolomeu Dos Santos Prisons are labyrinths. You can get out of anywhere at right angles, even a balloon, even a Klein bottle. A prison is a labyrinth you haven’t cracked. Then you come to the gates. There are said to be seven. The final gate has only a far side Luminous under the heavy…

Basho stood on this same bridge and watched these same swans a male and a female grooming in the slow olive water dragoning and phoenixing and wallowing like dogs in dust they don’t once look at each other opening ripples cling & cross

Shreds of cloud pencil colored scratched on like nervous rapid doodles give way to a thunderstorm queering again the chance of snow. *     *      *      ”I do not cross my father’s ground      to any House or Town.” For her writing Emily Dickinson liked best the inside of used envelopes. Joseph Cornell sent a small box to…

(1) Nodding asleep sitting up a desire to have what might happen erased Will I be drunk on Friday night as you will be? My head is on my chest emptied. I want to. . .I want to my head is in the hands of sleep like having my life stop and begin again when…