translated from the Greek by Stratis Haviaras & Dana Bonstrom Now that all is moot, finished, yes: a handful of Londoners, yourself included, can haunt the world again from the safety of your clubs. Just who do you think you are? Wagering other people’s money on matters of such revolting precision Imaginative in your benevolence…
The setting is a sleepaway camp nestled at the foot of the Green Mountains in Vermont. The camp’s entrance is flanked by twin totem poles stenciled up and down with crudely carved letters that spell the name of the place: indian acres. Drive through the gate, and trails fork out to archery ranges, a dining…
my ears go underwater as i speak, just one, & then another wood floors surround w/ boxes & sound, systems of voices & trajectories the mouth of the river & the left coast, montreal to twelve months of vancouver imagine, i said, doing everything it is you do, except in the shower even thunderstorms erupt…
if this is insecurity, call it, then, the nature of arrogance if you stare at any photograph long enough, it will begin to flutter, & eyes inside will nearly wink there are only two ways of reading this, & i have already forgotten the second one every time i ride a bus from one city…
The map’s measurements mimic . nothing in the world The field’s new furrows . follow the wandering gulch Sometimes sentences and lines . need to be the same Daughters suffocate . beneath their fallen fathers Anything you can explain . I don’t need to hear . Unpredictably angled . strings crisscross a grid The three…
* We must retract our offerings, burnt as they are. We must recall our lines of verse like faulty tires. We must flay the curatoriat, invest our sackcloth, and enter the academy single file. Poetry has yet to emerge. The image is no substitute. The image is an anecdote in the mouth of a stillborn….
1. Must everything be so—who are you—why bees—is this your beeping appendage—your sensation of alarm—shall I prostrate—what creed—why larynx—why sand, why a holy façade of face—why plinth and metalbone—what’s done—how does a dulcimer—what lament, what wrenching of will, why deposits into my head, why a direct line of sight over a hill— I do…
[apocalypsis—L. to uncover, disclose] i. “I am the sign of the Letter, / . . .” No seed. Flat beneath my hand: bone. Pelvis a field, but no seed. Because there was no punishment like fucking, its whip burned Adam and nothing after. Because shine took flight like two parrots so deep green they seemed…
When I was riddled with pizzazz and hot to trot, gnats and mosquitoes didn’t bother me, but now I’m past the middle of that carrying on, so long immunity. Bugs bite parts once sleek as that trickster snake, and still fair, the blush of apples, where curves quiver. So says the mower in our garden….
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