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When you're in the mountains you feel the desert air. Waking to fog on a salt marsh you taste the empty boulevards of July. The earth shifts with you, one road hooks to another— a travesty of coins, shards of amphora, a trail of carnelian, things to palm at a riverbend. Words in the hand…
1. Tomatoes are not a poignant fruit, not with their wide, affable faces, their compliances with the eager knife. They recline in slices on the cutting board, all their operations a success. Their miniatures pose shinily in salad bowls, beaded with moisture, bathing in exotic dressings. When you bite them whole, they squeal in delight….
When you were a child, on hot, drowsy. tropical afternoons, in a secret hideout at school you peeled and sucked mamones, gnawing the sweet, fleshy pulp, remembering stories of how addicts of the fruit had been asphyxiated by mamón pits blocking their windpipes. So each mamón was an invitation to ecstasy and death (mazard berries…
“The Prime of Life” is one section of Scattering Carl, a book set at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts from late spring to mid- summer, 1978. The book has the form of a journal—prose notes and meditations, poems and poem fragments. It is a fictional journal, a made-up journal, a falsification and strenuous…
Edge out on the thin quaking limb of Arizona, our lost farm, the desert stretched rimless from eye to end. A few stone buildings, weathered woodshed at the axle, then long spokes of wire sheep pens ray out along the dirt tracks that know Mesa and Tucson but stop at the world. The sheep huddle…
Bare grapevines hang like a waterfall before the sun— Sky the cold color of blown breath. Cats weave, wearing their Etruscan smiles, through the smudgelight and the brush. It is a January of mist and war. Bombs falling on Baghdad and the streets of Israel. The fruit of the old year eaten, and the seeds…
translated by Olga Broumas and T. Begley Whether you have written poems or not isn’t as important as whether you have suffered, been impassioned, longed for what leads, by hook or by crook, to Poetry. The wind of life hits you before its material body, as the aroma of a woman before her actual presence….
In a sense it's always winter in this wooded county of our psyche, where my father and I build a house, the rest of the crew off drunk somewhere. The contractor has taken blueprints and a cash advance to Reno. A white sky pays out kernels of snow. My father saws. I nail. Partitions take…
Something is wrong. Something is always wrong within the shush and chaos of the valves, measured drumming in the stirrups of the ear, systole and diastole, something is wrong in the sickroom of the body, & deep in the marrow the cells are born deep in the marrow the cells learn fight How clever the…
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