Sunday: broken teacups to replace the brassiere; the old folks have too much to mull over. I guess I’ll cry for them when it seems as though the crying’s good. Monday: old sots in the willows — the dog food will probably last a year, with caution and a fork without tines. Tuesday: break your…
Steel arms tired of empty reaching, settle into a bed older than the urge to get across. No one pays attention. Losses are usual, the elements tempered to subtraction. Only giant beams know their own sinking for a tragic sun, eye burning horizons that cover them. Experts may detect a shrinking. Rails rode earlier to…
1. Always I feel it bloating like a tumor a weight, a shape brushing my thighs as I wade into sleep. The water is warm like my blood flat as a kitchen table my face dances there in sun circles the water is a caress. Then a fin breaks the surface coming fast. 2. You…
The door slams. The corpse sits up. The dog says, “Don’t look at me.” They have planned this in Hollywood. They have planned your elopment with the boy with silver cufflinks. They have planned his mother’s anger, the snobbishness caught in her teeth, gooey as a night of bile. When you unbutton your blouse —…
The word was somber. What it might have meant, its origin and weight, uncertain under shade as the dark face below the ratified sombrero. Eyes it gave the lie to overshadowed where sun wheels higher than missing trees. The hoopoo’s lim downcurving bill complements the Old World crest, flamboyant color in the unitary sun. Signs…
Put my glad rags in a cardboard box — This old jiggerboo never grew mature. Is everthing in its place except me? Don’t be surprised; I called all day And the only person I could reach was The operator; and it’s a sorry day when Nothing is coming down but your foot. And how deep…
(for Lynn Sukenick) She is the only go-go girl in Las Vegas with a white BMW with a chartreuse mohair bathrobe with dayglo pasties and monogrammed underwear She is the only go-go girl in Las Vegas with an emerald-green Ferrari with tulips in her fishtank Dunhill in her humidor onions in her glove compartment She…
No water drops over the lashed edge to ease the dry socket. The pale-veined year dies slower than a nerve, will not congeal. Each morning its lid thickens a hairbreadth, locks go limp as house plants, the tenants disappear indoors. Through film curtains they watch the ice cap creep down where a thin creek turns…
You may wonder why there are so few of us. It could probably be explained from the point of view of evolution regarding us as either freak mutations or freak adaptations. Besides it always seems to be a terrible life squalid or obsessive or sterile. Full of evasions of some reallife marriages. Marriages seldom occur…
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