Once we snuck in to look at it, late, after the choir director had gone, after Mrs. Wilson had changed her organ shoes, clapped them in her black bag and turned out the sanctuary lights. Then we crept back into the nave, dark swelling the high ribs, the carpet swallowing our footfall. Streetlight fell red…
What I dare to hope may be my next book will—Muses and publishers willing—consist of four longish poems, each focussed on a woman and each involving a relationship with (no, not her, but) a prior text. Something after a seventy-year-old friend had told me the story of her dramatic escape from war-torn Poland, I was…
Acrylic resin paint on canvas No longer tension, no dimension, only the words without letters floating in their washes, hiding Salomé, the figure behind our musings trapped in her camouflaging dance. The limit makes the shape and we have none, no bodies for the indistinct yearnings ebbing into mist, desire and mist. Imagine the sea…
from Ten Days in Russia Beneath you the road is smoke, the bridges thunder and everything is left far behind . . . Russia, where are you flying to? —Gogol, from Dead Souls You ancients out there, bulky, dark-coated women, you wait so patiently for a bus that never comes, as you must have waited…
This novel, titled Recipes From the Dump, is a mock cookbook of our culture. Spoken in the first person, the main character is a single mother of three, trying to cope in a world that appears to be falling apart. While reading the personals and taking evening walks with her wise neighbor, Gabby Fulbriten assembles…
Oil on paper mounted on linen Never this scratched world, its human brows like dry point, your harmonies are liquid glycerin, soothing, the lingering bath. Who knew better than you, Mark Rothko: color has not root nor core. Into each other at the first kiss fusing, a metamorphosis! Blue paint laps about our toes, our…
There's nothing more seductive than the basement of this gated and clapboard building in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, on a Sunday afternoon when Sister Walker's got the turkey wings and the fried chicken and the baked macaroni and the green beans and candied yams simmering on every burner in the tiny kitchen while upstairs all the brothers…
My earlier collections of verse were invariably divided into sec- tions—into sequences, that is—where geography or subject matter gave a unity to each section and a title set it off against its neighbours. The whole effect, or so I hoped, would add up to one of variety within unity, the unity proceeding from tone and…
Acrylic resin paint (Magna) on canvas The eye is watching you, the evil eye red-rimmed as the lipsticked lips of Thirties starlets sucks you in, in, in the quicksand path to sleep, lost Dante touring the circles. You have discovered the first “black hole.” Hesitating, hovering, you cannot decide: to enter the gravity of the…
No products in the cart.