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The creaky rocker, the single boarder in his billed cap, the three-legged dog, the sick mother, the endless tasks that trickle down from the corner mills and shops. I have been bad. Even the laundry’s angry, I can see it snapping like big dogs on short leashes. And my punishment is this gray gruel, this…
The pine tree at the corner of the lot where my childhood home, a ranch house, sits like a snapped sugar wafer on a slope. Tents in Upton’s field collapsed and pushed aside for a game of kickball or just tumbling. The oldest Upton girl whom I adore, nearer adulthood than I, her head in…
It’s hard to manage privacy while using the machines: they are so public, and fully half of us are here wanting to show ourselves, wanting an audience for this one triumph—sculpted shoulder, sculpted calf. But to be seen deciding, Yes, the last repetition, to be seen flinching the weights up despite an amount of pain…
Mostly it’s the same odd obsession with nothing— the barren verisimilitude, the doggy fidelity to the natural world. So, this thrust of dark eloquence must be a yew, a non-deciduous blue-green talon grabbing attention. It could be that. Or Death. Or Truth. The abstract nouns stomp around the landscape in their stout boots. Meanwhile, the…
I read in a book that in the Kishinev pogrom Forty-seven Jews had been killed But elsewhere I had read That forty-eight Jews had been murdered By fire, by stoning, by rifle, knife, and strangling. And I wondered if the author had accidentally left out My great-uncle Ephraim Belkin, perhaps because He was passing through,…
Where is the Life we lost in living? -T. S. Eliot When America died, I was passed out and I never noticed. Was it a meteor or an invisible wand that waved past our eyes and blinded everyone? I awoke one morning and electrical maggots were spurting from the mind-control machine in our disheveled living…
from The Farewell Symphony Tomorrow is Toussaint in Paris, All Saint’s Day, and I suppose I’ll visit Brice’s little white marble plaque in the columbarium at Père Lachaise. Why do I avoid it for months on end? I keep thinking of a couple of Americans we met during the year before Brice died. One…
Today is my fortieth birthday. I don’t feel old at all. I’ve been sitting here for a while, on this courtyard bench, and if she’s coming, then she’s late. Married couples walk around, trying to interest each other, pointing to the faded pink walls and to the iron balustrades. The men tell the women facts…
for Andre Foxxe A good show Starts in the Dressing room And works its way To the stage. Close the door, Andre’s cross- Dressing, what A drag. All The world loves A bride, something About those gowns. A good wedding Starts in the Department store And works its way Into…
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