for my friend Joseph Kahn; born 1950, drowned 1982 Walking the floor after midnight I leaf through your pharmacopoeia or a book on stars. How I love the night. It should always be night, and the living with their TVs, vacuum cleaners and giggling inanities silenced. With here and there a window lit a low…
The glass of water between them did not bar, ban or challenge their fevered conversation. But soon the glass shape disappeared and the water became a serious ocean, a sexy flow and barren. This endless gap, pitch and drowning water sprays up these facts: he was just a boy and she a thriving woman; he…
The Captain becomes moody at sea. He's afraid of water; such bully amounts that prove the seas. . . A glass of water is one thing. A man easily downs it, capturing its menace in his bladder; pissing it away. A few drops of rain do little harm, save to remind of how grief looks…
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…
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