for Henry Johnson Thereafter, his lecture on graves. Yet these are not graves. His lecture on well-organized hell. But this is neither hell nor organized, even to form discernible shapes. A handout: we reconstruct slowly, roil of body on stacked body. And heads, oddly floating to a surface, caught mid-scream and never like Orpheus. The…
You catch my breath with your waking a calf moves closer to its mother (slumbering) some brother leaves his home to bring me what I need. It doesn't work & I call you back— Sugar—I call you Sugar no rest in my slumber no sugar in my bowl
The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved. —Jeremiah 8:20 The morning before it happens at the rim of the field I wait for the call: the hard ground, the lull, and all around, on the verge the lit houses lie sorted and stored. And now the sound of arrowheads…
The dead are beyond caring. But Beatrice Is not beyond caring. She is not dead. She says to Death, “You are nothing to me.” She writes it down, “I won't stay.” “I'm not old.” “This necropolis is a disgrace.” “I don't know These people. And (besides) the country is cold.” Poland of Death! Our mother…
Obscenity stares at me mockingly Through dark American history Like an owl glaring out of An old shit-filled barn. I glare back at this glowing, Enigmatic image, and hear Henry Miller's voice laughing Out of his owlish disguise: “You can't fudge or fug it Instead of saying fuck. Words are like lonely buoys Floating in…
Such accidents do happen dancing: she says I'm dancing beneath your loving blow so I stagger staggered, he says no: it wasn't a blow it was a brush—feather light; I fly round the world for your gold another time she tries so hard to make him well, it makes her sleepy. More lately they share…
A sac of waters and saturated tendrils, The tear-thatch fills the cavity of the chest And presses against the brain stem, the pelvic cradle, The distended cage of ribs. It bobs Heavily, yet urges its rubbery weight around The heart in pliant folds that flex in rhythm With the still-avid laboring waves Of dilation and…
1. When the day arrived I Pushed your gurney to where A noiseless orderly Pressed for an elevator To drop you down and down To the operating room. The telephone rang too soon. Returned to the hospital, We heard the exact surgeon Present a schedule: In seven months, he said, Father, you would be dead….
I'm not Charles Darwin . . . I'm a computer, A logic machine modeled after the brain, But the brain is more than a logic machine, The brain takes everything and makes it new; It snaps like a turtle at the sources of novelty. If an object is bumpy, I respond to it; If an…
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