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….
for Lee Chapman The sky first. Hobbled by an absence, no vertebrae, the weight of an incessant moon—that extraction to one’s own madly grinning core over and over. And those stars itching away like a feast of lice; even its underpinnings are strung only to echo to echo . . ….
Dear Laird Hunt, It was with great interest that I read the description of your novel and the accompanying biographical material that appeared this weekend in the monthly literary supplement to our otherwise dull and basically pretty crappy county paper. I was so intrigued, in fact, that no sooner had I finished reading it I…
take a boy on a motorcycle feeling powerful. He has achieved the status of the boy on the motorcycle. Only something is not quite right. He rides it like yes, in and out, back and forth like day after day, all okay. That’s just what’s the matter, like nothing happens. So when he gets home,…
I sought vengeance, and now I dream of forgiveness. Let me explain how that came about. I want to lay it all out. My friends, I hope this last journal of mine will reach you, so you can be with me, with my thoughts, as long as it takes you to read it, and I…
Sludge heart. Pot-metal heart. Scree . . . Some leaves fell. Schlock heart. Chil- blain heart. Piss-stain heart. Gelded heart. O heart incontinent. 24-carat electro-plate heart. Cicadas were silent. Bumper-sticker heart. Foul-mouth stink-bomb heart. Black. Black. Black. And I sang all day. Drop-dugged wolf- bitch heart. And held birds in my hands. Thistle heart. Briar…
Dad, Todd, Mal, and me are sitting in the positions I’ve assigned us, and the Mormon Tabernacle Boring is singing the National Anthem really slowly. After forever, we all put our Orioles caps back on as the Pirates take the field, and it’s showtime. My palms are sweating. Mom comes in. “Uh-oh,” I say, not…
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