1. It angers me: the cold snap and freak ice storm that's wrecked my yearly pilgrimage home. Coming far from my northern province, I miss the perfume of the cape jasmine, and I want to smash the hard mush of tomatoes in paint cans on the porch against the white house and axe the crackling…
A boy stumbles forward in the bus each morning as his father, young and bearded, with a long body, holds the door. Slowed by a snowsuit and questions which must get asked, he allows people to catch and help him, their smiles lasting several stops down the road. In my lap, my neice speaks to…
Koslowski, decades ago, glued a photo of himself, the only one which exists, by the way, over the mirror in his bathroom, the only mirror in his apartment. Since that day he has painstakenly avoided ever looking into another mirror. Because of this, Koslowski today has only a vague idea of what he looks like,…
Eunice is tired of pain, everyone else's. She wants some gangster pain, to strut her thick ivories in a collision of dreams, the pajamas-to-work dream, the magnolia siege dream. What ya got there. Eunice, say Johnny and the boys. Eunice lives behind the bus, another fleeing place, riot of exhaust. She doesn't have much to…
The ten-car Interstate collision has shucked me from the body. My little heat ascends toward space, and now, under the surgery theater lights, they are lifting out my usable parts to be reinstalled, to keep some stranger going awhile. Goodbye, old heart, old greased purple fist. Keep slugging, just one more inevitable rejection. So long,…
Koslowski belongs to that tiny group of people who came into being through immaculate conception. “Whether in my case too the Holy Spirit had a hand in it, or perhaps even God in Heaven, I just don't know,” Koslowski mentioned to friends. In any case when he was younger and slept with his natural mother…
In sunglasses like dark lakes I like the way the car capsules me from conversation, the smell of the day burning. I write home, “Wind through the door is in any house, land from a window a hard pie.” It was a good house. Shutters, soup. One day in the mailbox the face on the…
If I should purchase necktie, hat and cane, spats, and a natural shoulder double breast ed suit, and stroll downtown, would I attain to Class? My heart is sinking in the west. If birds above me, singing to enfilade me top to bottom with sweet tracer fire, lit up my brain's molecular arcade, would meaning…
One morning, as Koslowski awoke, an excellent sentence immediately occured to him which he would not be able to rid himself of until the noon hours. “It was so humid and oppressive, it felt as if the air was running a fever.” A sentence which just about any novelist would surely lust after. In the…
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