The quest for winter sunshine washes The gasping survivor up on the shore Much that’s done isn’t meant Much that’s meant isn’t done I take it up & at the beck & call Of some remote agency I stick it in & when it’s over I pull it out again Like the bloody assegai of…
June 1976 I had an argument five summers ago, with Mary Kisataose. We argued in her village, which was a day’s walk. This argument . . . it was about a bee. What happened was this. We were sitting with children, at a table of hers. She had a jar of jam from the Hudson…
There’s nothing gentle where Aphrodite was. Empty mountain and grasshoppers banging into me. Maybe there never was. But I go up again and again to search under thorn bushes and rocks. Am grateful for the marble upper arm big as my thumb. A shard with a man’s feet and a shard with the feet of…
a rat swam toward me in my hot tub I shut my eyes and took my b.p. by bio-feedback & outside I heard the random snarling of the packs
* 1. First thing to know is, I’d never seen a cello until then, and haven’t since. I didn’t know what to call it. Someone named it cello for me. One day this man appears with it. It was Tiúk. He’d been known to live under rocks. Every so often he arrived with a wood…
It is cold this evening. One of the first cold evenings of autumn. I have your shirt over my own. I am not hungry. I am starving. And I look for the laws of all this. I write down a new name, Cyrene, beloved of Apollo. To look up. To learn about it before spring….
This part of the country is definitely a corner pocket when it comes to word music. For instance although he’s got a tin ear over there under the palm trees and Nazi architecture of Cal Tech the only poet/editor in SoCal who can fit an entire cantaloupe in his mouth without opening his lips is…
A month gone by, and days like clouds form above the sea. A man I met smiled at me from a chair, took my hand, talked to me simply. When I turn in the warm bed windowpanes, rain light, and the garden whiten under the moon. Memory colors me like a flush. I lie on…
the Nigerian gods were cooks. They made the babies for the people, each baby carefully shaped, slant of the eyes tone of voice the way the legs would leap and climb sparse hills. Each time the gods cooked a batch of babies enemy gods blew up a storm whipping the treetops where the babies cradled…
No products in the cart.