Some drunkards drink themselves as sober as this liar lied herself true. I lied to my parents about where I'd been. To my boss about where I was going. To my friends about my past – creating accomplishments, creating failures, denying experiences, admitting fantasties. To strangers I was one of quadruplets, an orphan, a twin,…
Let us remember that unsung breed who send my likes to you – wisely: Van Elliott, Bert Kelsey, Fred Weed of Roxbury Latin; and the likes of Feathereye Mykey my uncle did so unknowingly. Let me remember thresholds left here to cross yours there; remember the clutter of the place that’s Feathereye’s junkshop where I…
Doyle's reflection scintillated wetly from the shop windows as he passed along the Boulevard du Montparnasse without pausing, as he frequently did, in front of one of Hemingway's old haunts – the Coupole or, across the street, the Dome. He turned right on the Boulevard Raspail and walked slowly, nearly shuffling, toward L'alliance Francaise and…
I’ll sit on this porch all night, my gin glass sweating, moths searing their eyes in the attractive light. I might be beautiful, I’ll need to be patient as the man on the train, who waves, who requires so much of me in passing. And the tracks receding, go gentian, violet, toward themselves; curative as…
Cambridge Mass Rain falls outside. The bulb’s ablaze in the kitchen Blinds down. Winter. My woman stands upright from our bed. My daughter dreams in another country. It’s only tuesday. Beginning the week, nobody’s of humour. I am wooden. There’s no contact left, somehow, with old friends.
You starve yourself, your body as essential as the crust off a bread. Not me – I’m the whole loaf. I rise and fall. I tease the clock. A proud machetti tears me open, warm, white, steaming. Stuffed with tuna, devilled egg, curled like an intestine, I am greedy, Every pink pimento is a fleck…
Two straight days of sun and the idiot magnolia opens Boston, to cleanse it, pull the bullet of winter. I feel better. The bodies in the river thaw to neon fish, and clouds, sculling. There’s no telling when it will snow again. Blossoms are words in the long-winded streets: landed absences, long-distance calls for relief….
A. There was a man, Agur, toward the end of Proverbs. He wasn't a very important man. Maybe he was a failed prophet, these things happen. He wasn't very bright – a mesomorph, chunky and tough, not cut out to be a prophet at all, not good with signs, a stumbler, no king. As though…
Don’t worry about my tongue being a biscuit of dust. Don’t think about my pillow which is filled with quinine. I don’t. My malaria is not contagious, nor is it hereditary. Why do I walk bent over like this? Because when they operated to remove my malaria, and found nothing, they became bitter and sewed…
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