My sister phones and asks if I'm getting anywhere. I say my house is full of ashes. I tried to burn the whole mess away. I realized I would die. I wept and put the flames out. It was a terrible mistake. So I took a ride. Long by yards by acres and acres of…
The train circled. You two hid in the algae trees, slinking around the plastic rocks, bellied down to the liver-colored land, getting close, getting closer until whose finger grazed the tracks? Who cares: you both reached the station sticky with blue, the transformer smoking and the train: crash! Daddy! But that wasn't you. You asked…
She did not look maimed. Heavy, slow, too dumb to stand and run when she was knocked to the ground, she took a gut-buster from the ram she'd refused and groaned and groaned if I lay a hand on her and went on groaning as I stood, strange in this life I'd begun, and crowded…
(Amagansette, L.I.) Each dawn this road beings with a rooster clearing the pride from his throat he couldn't swallow all night. When trees notice me they begin talking crow since I know nothing of flight, or how corn tugs you from cloud. They are still annoyed with a man who let them think Christ back…
No place to lie down and say: home, I live here, work here, grow and reap here. No place to send myself. So in this cold night with a borrowed coat and a borrowed bike I sit looking out the window of a borrowed home and a borrowed wife. And this body. It gets later…
The friend who is concerned with backdrops, not us, but what we stand against, his way of looking at the women he loves, to not look at them at all but at roofs, a bit of sky. To understand when exactly a woman is angry because of the way she works her mouth he believes…
I sit alone in the kitchen thinking about my lover who said it's over and listen to the guy in 12B end his binge with a song so full of wine it sounds red. I pour another cup of coffee, more mud than the last, then look out the window at the East River and…
It's been around a lot of times— the orbiting of my life— the notches grow blacker.
If the town celebrates his roasting it's their right. He's their hog. He's pork now. His life in the mash has gone sour. The bad fairy presides over his crispy feet. The prodigal has come back and does not need such company. Now the fires licks this one all over. Now the fire is giving…
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