I love the gold haloes of the saints in Giotto's frescoes of the legend of St. Francis. I love the plainness of the story, plain as the Saint's brown habit. In the Basilica at Assisi, lying on my back with my binoculars, my feet on my guidebook, I trace the tale in fragments. He is…
Somewhere, maybe in the spirit, effort is trying to remain lost and unnoticed when truly it is the substantial: carrier of bells and evenings, light crisp and unnecessary hugging a wall. A black wall which children shriek at and hit with sticks—no point but much effort. A man stands up, his house is a desk….
One of the laws the pseudo-commissioner decreed: We were to plug our memory sockets Into the damaged main-frame he kept locked In his dungeon. With the flick of his switch, Worlds began to crumble. Or so we thought. And in these quasi-desperate straits Only one person could save us. He'd need A pack of radar…
I wish we were our furthest father’s father. A clump of slime within a warming swamp. Living and dying, fertilizing, bearing, We’d ooze our essence, numb and damp. A sprout of algae or a sandy hillock, Formed by the winds and heavy with earth’s clutch. Then quits; even a pond-bug’s head, a gull’s wing Would…
drifts near the ceiling above every head, one Ma per son, daughter, and grandchild. You have a yellow Ma, Mother, like a lightbulb in a cloud. She's looking at you with a kind smile. She's taking it and taking it. With every Ma there is a Pa to dish it out. You have a yellow…
A pencil is stuck in your back: manifestation of a common practice— doll torture (the flip side of pinning flies). It's this evil innocence we worship in you like a golden laugh. Idol of tacky teenage-hood, devil's workshop of poo-poo magic, R. D. Laingesque schizophrenic peeing on asylum wall, or writing a name in shit:…
In this form invented by the author, each three-line poem has exactly 17 words. I. VERITAS 1. Harvard's River Such blinding brilliance, mirroring Sol on flow: To see you, Charley, First I must shut my eyes. 2. Harvard's Fog1 You house, fair Harvard, so much—you spawn so little— Bloom. Bees Don't poke in glass flowers….
The Lone Night Cantina was not a real cowboy bar. In those places, imagined Annie Wells, in those roadside joints outside of Cheyenne or Amarillo, just off a two-lane highway with pickups made in the good ol’ U.S. of A. parked in the dirt lot, the men angled their sweat-stained Stetsons over the eyes and…
I am told gravity insists. So I lie ass flat on a green deck. The sea comes at me like a sexual spurt. I am my own bicuspid. Bone white, a wave turns in, hits steel like middle C. A man moves his feet from my head, says, I'll leave you alone. I can never…
No products in the cart.