I live by the river, daughter to no one. Of course, I want. The formless sea fills every window, always the sleeping gift in my left hand, not how the life was outlined. The underwater road is obscured, as it should be. Light years waste away in my body. When my mistress sends…
Your images come to you like the lost buffalo. In the sundown of your fancy, in the slanted town, two men face each other in the street. After the war, we all lived in a ruined city. I wore my black tie every day to class. The night they come calling for you, they don’t…
The moon sent us up this stream— the moon could not be wrong— Pulled upward by that promise, the Snake River Fall Chinook came home already treasoned to fail. There they thrashed, tens of thousands head-to-tail in two days and two nights against the new dam on the river. Relentless even to the final washing…
He was, in those years, the wizard of the place, the state’s most famous seasonal resident, primordial snowbird, genius of machinery in a kingdom whose vegetable dynamos outpulsed anything even his well-greased corporate laboratories might envision, imperator of science swathed in green, cocooned in jungle xylem, this man who would bring light into the darkness…
On Grove Street we talked about writing in a room jammed with bodies, but now no smoke. Everything else was the same including my belief that it would never end. Ken said to Roberta that because they lived in rent- stabilized flats, they had the luxury of writing all hours of the day and night…
Since starting triple drug therapy last week, R.’s barely been out of bed. Every eight hours his watch goes off and it’s time to take the pills. You have to take them with meals, but he’s lost his appetite. He swallows the pills, sits up for a few minutes, then back to bed. Tonight he…
The writer of our day has become especially repulsive recently by walking in public without his pants hind-end first and mournfully displaying to the world the place that hurts, and this place hurts him because he does not know where he can sit down peacefully. —Maxim Gorky Down the hill past the bakery you air…
In the name of July the heat banks and turns like a lift of swallows. In the name of the lion-bearing month, it swaggers; we can do no work in the face of it; we are overcome in its welter. We the city-makers, the furnace-stokers, the curious, the experimenters; we the utmost strainers, puncturing…
I’m standing amidst the ruins of the Plaza de la Sirena with my parrot, Dr. José Venegas, who I suspect of being tapped into some collective archetypal memory bank with a bizillion other parrots— the way thimble jellyfish are with other thimble jellyfish. He knows colors and can count to ten, nine, eight . ….
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