If I loved him—I loved him— I cannot remember the whole middle part where the gods never go, they’d be bored. Of the beginning—how many poems to describe his buoyancy, and gaze, and hands— how many times can the act of whispering together be a remonstrance to the underworld? And the end is completely remembered—…
The phones, the long-distance phones are ringing. The satellite phone from the field camp in Kosovo. The lawyer’s phone in a complex in Palo Alto. The car phone conveying a child to baseball practice. In this way the siblings converse and condole much as the now-vanished Carolina parakeets with their sunflower-yellow heads and radiant green…
Outside of town, back on that one country lane, they work down into the ground, pieces of cracked road lie to the sides, small black boulders. Deep brown earth makes a rim around the great opening, a moist lip. Machinery sits on each side, patient yellow creatures. Lights are hung, making the men’s uniforms a…
Lumber me up, my licky bloke, my one so far unseen, my limbered timber boy. What luck to bucky suck till sated, luminous tuneful body to play on, even now long play me on. I hanker for the slow bang of my love, his howl and cheek, shebang, the flaming oh’s of his moany mouth….
When you stood up and walked past the rows of desks and windows, seeing the yellow and green trees you had already admired, praising even the door where you stood before entering, imagining yourself reading passages of sin or love or the earth or moon’s ashen birth— what amazement you must have felt later, looking…
Though the memory doesn’t feel like mine, I must have been there, moving north northwest, holding, up above the Perfume River, with Simon, Isaac, our Arab gunner, Vince, called Pineapple because of his face, the NVA who kept on smiling, who would not stop to save his own life, and Peter who had stopped asking…
Down among the art shows they made some striking models, grotesqueries! It made us think life wasn’t quite like that was! It certainly gave us pause. It certainly gave us pause for thought. The room that had no windows was interesting. The pictures where every face was always the artist’s…
The symposium entitled Why a Machine Can Write Better than You, and Does wasn’t nearly as popular as Flamethrowers: Is There One in Your Future?, and neither could hold a candle to Guppies in the Kitchen: A Normative Reading. The preponderance of jaded gardeners at Low-Maintenance Gravel: Future’s Flower was nearly equaled by the architects-on-the-lam…
Gary Soto, Poetry Lover, novel: In this touching sequel to the novel Nickel and Dime, Soto once again combines humor and pathos with his heartwarming portrait of Silver Mendez, a down-and-out Chicano poet trying to revive himself and his career. (New Mexico)
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