Excerpts from a co-editor’s journal and from letters to Tess Gallagher: Letter, April 25, 1986: I’ve been reading until I’m nearly cross-eyed, so I’m taking a break to walk to the mailbox, having followed your wise suggestion and bought my very own postal scale-weighs up to five pounds-on sale at Arvey’s. At the moment, it…
Ploughshares Vol. 2/1-the issue that I edited-was published twenty-seven years ago. Contained in its pages are the markings of a very specific period in Boston, including a line drawing of Peter O’Malley sitting in the Plough and Stars, cap pulled low, newspaper raised, and notices for the Grateful Union Bookstore, Guinness stout, and Emerson College’s…
All bend in one wind.
Little Kaiser, the parrot in our local headshop’s sidewalk cage, confronts an unceasing daily stream of whistles and coos and hellos, waspish buzz of film on auto-wind, the sudden, minor lightning of a flash. He doesn’t seem to mind. Not a headshop exactly: years ago the police swept away the ranks of bongs and rolling…
I remember standing in the kitchen, stirring bones for soup, and in that moment, I became another person. It was an early spring evening, the air California mild. Outside, the eucalyptus was bowing compulsively over the neighbor’s motor home parked in the driveway. The street was quiet for once, and all the windows were open….
As if the names we use to name the uses of buildings x-ray our souls, war without end: Palace. Prison. Temple. School. Market. Theater. Brothel. Bank. War without end. Because to name is to possess the dreams of strangers, the temple is offended by, demands the abolition of brothel, now theater, now school; the school…
An absolute sound, this soughing above the tops of trees. For the longest while I couldn’t look up, so much did I long to see the ocean, rough and whitened. Such soft ululations, such a drumroll of feathers! Yet it was no other weather than Wind. I looked up; the sky lay blue as always,…
Nights turn a hairpin curve to dreams: I need to find our child a country or a name. I forget which. Jung remembered the smell of milk from his high chair, Woolf, red and purple flowers sprawled on her mother’s dress. A nun’s pink nose swoops towards me like a bird in my first recall….
And then there was the night, not long After my wife had left me and taken on the world- Destroying fact of a lover, and the city Roared in flames with it outside my window, I brought home a nice woman who had listened To me chant my epic woe for three Consecutive nights of…
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