The day after Thanksgiving my mother was arrested outside the front doors of the J.C. Penney's, Los Angeles, and when I went to get her I considered leaving her at the security desk. I thought I wanted her in jail. I wasn't surprised – I'd known all along she was a thief. Small things: a…
In spring, when the earth turns to food and the mares thicken with what they have kept hidden through winter in their bodies and between her legs weeks early the sac grew of the thin bluish milk that is the first need, in the last days she'd come reluctantly, if then, to the wooden barn,…
Bachelors wives, and maids children, be well taught. — Thomas Heywood One by the papermill, one by pleurosis, this one is learning by harrow and plow. So frail the vessel for lessons of weight, so provident are the ways. Annabel watches the rags in their stew, and see what a mill can make of the…
It's the season before winter. The fish are slippery without their skins. Scaler in hand, toeing the dock's edge, Your back to the lights of Labrador. Summery fish are leaping to rise One above the other. In your dreams you are always Losing your footing, and, Waking to this sign of your sins, Certain only…
Wanting to try her hand at literature, she had taken it into her head to fashion willy-nilly novels, letters, comedies, and other nonsense like that. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Confessions, IX In 1955, two hundred years after Madame Louise d'Epinay began planning an autobiographical novel, it was finally published in its original form. Seeing an earlier version,…
All those years he was married, frequenting the map stores. The eight quadrangles surrounding the house in which he lived and worked, he saw them in relief: he pinned them over his desk like messages, justified. He spent long hours studying them. He fell in love with maps. At night he would lie on the…
Things happen. Images that seem to last. With luck, you catch them on Spring days in March when a trio of boys tease a girl wearing a white confirmation dress that trails in mud. They chant: Here comes the bride, tossing soapflakes from a box. A drunk dances down St. Marks like a tango instructor…
After listening to a talk by Darrell De Vore Wearing a wool-knitted cap, Guatemalan shirt, He says, “I consider myself a primitive composer Because I live close to nature. I want Sound Magic, A term I take from the composer, Harry Partch, who said: ‘Primitive man found sound magic in works around him.’ Listen to…
—for Roberta Quick head. Sharp wing, voices you could never do without. Even when still they are busy. Getting into things, whatever it is they are doing, body and beak goes into it. Nourishment under old leaves and crevasses of bark. You can only supplement their diet. How they draw the world together— but as…
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