In heaven there is no beer. That’s why: There was a bar outside of Pigeon Forge, crawled back onto a flat space hanging off its mountain, where someone, seemingly inspired by great forces, had seen the fiction of her body, and in tribute rendered it fantastically, overwhelmingly, in fluorescent paints across the entirety of the…
Everybody knew what you were going to do before you did it. You couldn’t go out without encountering Some version of yourself, oh, years old You thought you had let go of, Like that narrow hall, the row of frames Contiguous along the wall, you walk down, walk down. Look, here are crows the…
The poetry club in Jean’s neighborhood scheduled readings of new works every Wednesday in the basement of a popular restaurant, The Two Bruce Café. A surprising lot of people showed up regularly to hear and then critique the week’s artistic efforts, and the two lawyers named Bruce who owned the place felt rewarded because the…
One glimpse—that’s all, then in no time flat, Coyote’s beguiled, spit-shine kempt: cologne-scented singer, bouquet-bringer, acrobatic twister into arabesques: What can I change? What’s the sure-fire ingredient? How many howls make a billet-doux? Good luck, sings the swan-white moon, good luck and let me know— No desert…
…these blinds give people control over light; they let the outside in and still allow a feeling of privacy in a glassed room. —from a brochure on window treatments you say what I remember didn’t happen and hanging the blinds I admit my dreams swerve from rippled instants to serial repeats I think about the…
3. While I was living in Greece, my girlfriend in America had an affair with a Greek boy, a biology student named Vassilis, who was renting a room in the same house as her. Sweet-tempered, flabby, inexpert, he made her feel at ease. He was gone when I got back, but I squeezed it out…
I don't know if I was awake or asleep; my eyes were open— the feeling you have as a child after your parents look in on you, before they leave for an hour or so thinking you are asleep, but you are not asleep. You hear their whispers on the stair, the door closing softly,…
It keeps getting darker back there. They are playing catch with a luminous ball, shooting baskets by sound. The edges of the playground close in until it is just the size of this room grown suddenly cold and quiet enough to overhear them walking home, their plans future secrets, buried in silence at the corner…
for Stanley Kunitz Poem is difficult when it's still dark, lying in bed without sleep. Poem is difficult entering the kitchen, another working day. The poem I once loved made breakfast, while I wrote down my dreams. I remember the first poem, brown hair piled high above a never-to-be Nordic smile, a crown of lit…
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