Choked sunset Of crashing time. Roads. Roads. Intersections of flight. Cart tracks across fields That saw the burned sky Through the eyes Of dead horses. Nights with lungs full of smoke, With the heavy breath of those fleeing, When shots Struck the twilight. Out of a broken gate Ash and wind came soundlessly, A fire…
after K. L. Kahlbaum's Catatonia, 1874 Forgive my mild trismus. You hear that steak barking? Dog, dog, dog, dog. . . Do not give the doctor your hand. Leech on God's temple. Bid him goodbye. The picture—with the blond locks—no, not blond, the picture of the bare tree. It must remain the trare bee Light…
This damn ranting about doom . . . is that food for modern mind?“ —from Bergman's The Seventh Seal The Swedes look good in black and white because they're so fair, so blond. On film, the knight Antonius's skin shines as though there's a lamp inside his body. Even when they've come down with the…
It is always among sleepers we walk. We walk in their dreams. None of us Knows what he is as he walks In the dream of another. Tell me my name. Your tongue is blurred, honeyed with error. Your sleep's truth murmurs its secret. Tell me your name. Out at the edge, Out in the…
“. . . and another workshop, since my last letter, at the mental hospital. No, they don't pay me. Several good writers, but it's sad (the locks). A man said he'd killed his cousin. A young girl, Sarah, tremulous, with electric hair, said, ‘I was thinking about good and evil, in the cafeteria. All I…
Little chameleon swooning for a tin pot of old water, you remind me of our worst lieutenant generals, balancing on tiptoes, yanked tall and then swollen with greed, curling their thick tongues like hoodwinked nooses down into the blue bowl— the color of tricky sky, of well-traveled ocean glass, the last emptied bottle tossed overboard—…
1. Life Style Invincible begetters, assorted Scruffses have always lived hereabouts in the woods trapping beaver or fox, poaching enough deer to get by on. Winters, they barricade their groundsills with spoiled hay, which can ignite from a careless cigarette or chimney spark. In the Fifties, one family barely got out when the place lit…
My father found himself in Boston once, ten thousand myths away from Oklahoma. I think of him standing on the rim of the Atlantic, the horizon vertical as it describes the Upperworld and the Underworld. It was the water that attracted him, as if he were some kin to the Watermonster, as if he’d heard…
For my son I tried to distinguish between personal fear and principle. Now laughter phlegms deep in my throat because I remember the tenuous mud dam in the marsh, only surface tension holding back the black water, and the sleek beaver gliding with a mouthful of sedge and sapling back to the lodge and her…
No products in the cart.