Pigtails fiddles with my riverbed, she shoots some plutonium up my harpsicord. I am here in Holland up a nut tree. I walk the shopping mall in my pajamas. My cologne seems to intoxicate everyone. Deluded cattle walk out of the barbershop saying things like “Nice pajamas,” and “Didn't I see you at the golf…
I decided to never worry again when I could not see the stone, I decided the sky was there, even in the skyless night even when the family name awoke and roamed. The family name made so much noise! like the sea which had buried some other blood some other box of clothes which washed…
Some would have you think the Pony Express is dead. Don't believe it. It's only waiting. You know the letter you thought of writing to that woman you once loved, the one describing how you remembered her hair or hands or the curve of her chin? That's the sort of letter they now deal in,…
I ‘The Strand of Dark Beginnings’ "But metaphor is never innocent. It orients research and fixes results," Jacques Derrida writes in Writing and Difference (17). And so for the poet who wishes to write a poetry of discovery rather than a mimicry or recitation of fixed forms of thinking, metaphor must subvert cultural and aesthetic…
It will always be just love, spider failure, curious, worn dead life, home in September, far from all love. The radiant agent of the breast is my express, my station of pentimento, my erasure of the hemmed. My sad dream when my eyes said I do not love you, as good as we are. In…
There are stories that unwind themselves as simply as a ball of string. A man is on a plane between New York and Denver. He sees his life as moving along a straight line. Today here, tomorrow there. The destination is not so important as the progression itself. During lunch he talks to the woman…
You wake up healthy but you don't feel right. Now everything's backwards and you're thinking of someone to blame. And you do, you're lucky, drinking coffee was easy, the traffic's moving along, you're like everyone else just trying to get through the day and the place you're dreaming of seems possible— somewhere to get to….
In another time, I could look outside With a kind of white envy, An endlessly impatient gaze. The sunny lawns, the line of houses With triangular porches, A neighbor's long-handled shovel— I admired these things For their simple vanity: A gift of function and place. And all that I saw seemed a kind of temptation—…
For my grandmother The cars flashed like scales as the hearse-headed snake Crawled down the dusty lane to the funeral tent Flapping dove-gray wings in the wind-stropped heat. I saw you snug in the hearse's air-conditioned gut And imagined your eyes opening, staring Through the cloud of velvet lining the brass lid, Your thunder-gray pupils…
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