Taking yourself seriously is much more difficult even than having others take you seriously. Women aren’t trained to it. On my very first date, for example, the guy gave me five bucks to bet on my own horse and when I won I had to ask him what to do with the money. Do you…
It’s raining like the day you walked out, harmonica in your pocket, the suitcase of shirts. I’m thinking of you again, with your variety of wives: the cajun, my mother the Greek, and Alberta, the Texas peach. Reminded by this dull rain and every man I see absently touching the child, of how you smiled…
She could only remember that leather thing of skin flapped over the sunken chest, the way the sheet cut him off at the waist and chin, effacing the place where the rest of the delinquent body hid. She could only remember the fact of ribs sprawled flat as the arms of starfish floating drugged on…
I was never beautiful. I learned by heart the octaves of grief and the peculiar phrases of a man’s desires. Mine was the chord seldom struck; oh they gave me an arm to walk over the esplanade. I walked with the arm. They stood near the edge, watching, humming the ruse of the borrowed car…
Who is this Judi’s Jack Are his steps wider than his yawns quicker Than Judi’s smile or does he stroll with a smirk Real fine, real tough Who is this Judi’s Jack sitting in a puddle His feet in the air, hands folded together He has been seen late at night calling to the birds…
this is the first night no morning comes no morning nudges noon no lateday sunset collects in evening’s cistern; festival rot rusts flowerpetals down open sewers, cobblestones fasten echoes of haytime frivolity; early smell of snow gives everyone harvest jitters and the trees fake light while the moon hides under an unloaded wagon all night…
I walk on hooked rugs; my beds are covered with patchwork. Across the road they sell corn and red beans—fresh picked, and the milk in bottles has a layer of cream an inch thick at the top. This was my father’s home I have come back to. My elderly cousin is working her latest jig-saw…
Spring is still the groundswell of your body heaving up from its wildly patient sleep. I can’t explain that, but know why we imagine for the dead a life without desire—so they will not want ours. Palimpset of smoke, you’re blown past recognition into mere expectancy, the place a rock was, a pure attitude of…
Perched on each others tongues To fly Where now are the angels In what pursuit plunged vaporously Who late will sniff your crotch for eternity The wind is rising The diamond that divides the faces of a wound The surface of our planet should be waxed To make the wind go faster Than the windmills…
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