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What will you write about your final day?On that last page the words require truth’s grain. What use is one more journey’s destination?The sweet surprises of another day? What, when the great fire roars through your home?What, when the earth’s fault slips with its sundering? What passion can you kindle to survive them?No, no, none…
It’s alright to overdress for the riot. Your rage is stunning.It’s alright to pursue the wrong pleasures and the right suffering.Here’s my permission. Take it. It’s alright to replace a siren with a bell. Let the emergency make some music. It’s alrightthat the meter reader broke your sunflower in half. You knewbetter than to plant…
for the ladies at Florence House The fact of April first means nothingother than the rent check is due & spring or not we are all tenants of snow today& I have no children under my apron nor angelsgracing my back & the women chew slowlywhile it thickens beyond the window pane & the fact…
You’d better believe that if I hadn’t already tied the knot on these sweatpants I’d be out there in the mad brick city painting my lips the only red my complexion will allow, maybe with some heels on, I could probably find some heelsor at least borrow some, well first make some friends in this city that shuts itself…
i.m. Kathleen Roche (1982-2018) God of all comfort, closeyour hand over the tract houses of Livingston—lay shadow on the subdividedland of Christmas lights and cul-de-sacsand minivans—withdrawthe mortar from the bricks that bind the staggeredtownhomes and crackedchimneys over white-trimmed condominiums—swallow the mailboxesdown into the loam beneath each quarter-acrelawn—pull back the plotsof mulch and patchwork sod until they spilllike sewage through the streetsand…
Charley sponges off the dinner dishes—hers and Karim’s, the girl’s, the Goat’s—then slots them one by one into the rack to drip. All the while staring straight ahead through her reflection into the night. Despite the heat, unusual for Paris in late October, she keeps the windows latched against police sirens and Maghrebi rap and…
We use them every day. Across intersections, white stripes stitch together seams of foot traffic. The ubiquitous stripes signal pedestrian paths that network our built environments. Often called “crosswalks,” these pedestrian crossings have evolved over the years to curiously accrue animal names like zebra crossings, panda crossings, pelican crossings, toucan crossings, and puffin crossings. To…
Just before noon on a Friday that is, better late than never, the first perfect day of spring, a bell on the Commons starts to ring. For years this bell had been bolted inside an Erie & Lackawanna train engine, riding the rails along the Cuyahoga River, less than a mile to the west of…
They come arching over the horizon from distant places, like bent, crooked arrows dispatched from many directions. They arrive in thin blue envelopes on folded stationery, or in fat, feverishly duct-taped packages. By overnight mail—sent prepaid by Fed Ex—($26.00!)—containing, say, three little misshapen onyx pebbles, which, I am told, should be placed in the corner…
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