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The first noises had all been dings, mostly, or thuds, but these new noises were all real rumbles and in the walls. Other numbles had come and gone, but they had been lower down, deeper, beneath her-some midnight demon under the bed that had gone away with warm milk or with tea, a runaway train…
When Burns arrived in Kotzebue, they were shooting the dogs. He'd never been to Alaska before and it seemed without compromise. Weather had kept him in Nome for two days where he'd seen a saloon fire. He'd been across the street in a shop buying chocolate and bottled water, and the eerie frozen scene mesmerized…
Here is the infant formula plant missed by a hair's breath next to it here is the biological research facility bombed with advanced machinery of pinpoint accuracy Here are the small women and large babies the medium-sized women with tiny children and the large, the tall women with shrinking babies and here are the former…
Chapter 19 Two women in the square on market day. One plays a harp, the other, bells. At their feet a sign says, "Deux femmes de 54 ans essayant de gagner leur vie dans la dignité. Bonne journée et merci à vous." At their feet a little basket for money. The albino midget passes offering…
on my birthday I climb up here only to feel small again. Blue liquor of distances: one sip and I start to lose size, anger, the sticky burrs of wanting. If only, what if—let the wind carry it away. Wave after wave of shadow comes over the mountain, like some great migration. Up here everything's…
yesterday, in new york city the gravediggers went on strike & today, the undertakers went on strike because, they said, of the overwhelming number of corpses stretched out on tables in the overworked, embalming rooms (unnecessarily, they said, because of wars & plenty stupid killings in the streets & et cetera & et cetera, et…
On the last day of our vacation in Paris, I was thinking that it's better to be content at Our Lady of Perpetual Aluminum Siding than to feel disappointment at Notre-Dame Cathedral. John, sitting beside me during the Spanish-language service, held my hand and stared down at the floor. He looked morose because the day…
The lilacs on the roadside are rusting. They hold up clusters of lost light, soft brown stars that wrinkle and go dead. The deaths I keep coming back to send up a sweet smoke, the slow burn of decay. On the forest floor, pale vellum leaves; rain-tempered pine cones, stained with resin: pine branches drying…
for K. Curtis Lyle within an avalanche of glory hallelujah skybreaks spraying syllables on the run, spreading sheets, waving holy sounds, solos sluicing african bound transformed in america into hoodoo, inside tonguing blues snaking horns, where juju grounds down sacred chords up in the gritty foofoo where fleet rounds of cadences whirlpool as in rivers,…
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