Christy Brown’s "Down All the Days"
you the perceiver then when things come close far i there’s no mover with action it’s all right not she any old dirt …
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The Tourists
It was not spring but spring seemed on its way That winter’s day that sun and wine had warmed For us, at leisure (one might almost say At peace), although the city’s sidewalks swarmed With people not too different from our own. But whether it was splendour or a slum Through which we walked, we…
Soft, Soft
Soft, soft is my life and America is grand wherein I take off two whole days from work. The difficulty is in how to adjust to returning so that this hurting myself is to be included in my pleasure and the face of America, nose of a Mack truck, eye of a windshield, is not…
Mon Jour Chez Sam: A Visit with Beckett
First of all: this is not going to read like an interview because when Asher and I went to see Backett it was to pay homage, not to pick his brain clean for the delectation of the nation. It was a conversation, not an interrogation. And second: The three of us drank most of a…
In Defense of Pure Sensation
a spoken & orchestrated work for 1 mass and 2 persons set: Any large city. time: After sunset toward the end of any war. action: Uncountable parties are in full swing behind uncountable broken windows. Uncountable people turnon, drink, fornicate, vomit, laugh, whisper, shout and piss where they stand or sit or recline. Above the…
Maumau American Canto
16. for Creeley lexicunt one day fuck will be like love worked out in formu-la-de-dah that spooon that spooon starburst dustn out all over back seat covers. pat boone’s farm. & jimmy just a dream fabian society bandstand america. bennett cerf impanel it. th d a r confess thats how they came (accordn to…
Slices
In the city at the terminal Pvt Gigure of the Air Force is having trouble choosing but leans toward a Payday candy bar. In the city at the terminal a painter whom I once met has nothing to say to me. In the city at the terminal Morris Mintz has managed to get his name…
Isopet
A burly country bumpkin, Bald as an autumn pumpkin, Sat – in his cups – at home. Some kind of fly, a-winging, Time and again kept stinging His unprotected dome. Each time the pest would land, The peasant smashed his hand Smartly against his head. Just as the bug would bite him, He tried in…
Near Cub Run, In Virginia
You swat a bug off a ham shank. Meats hang in the attic like a row of stairs to another floor. You are up here to get a chair so you can sit outside if you want. The pixy little butterfly pins your daughter makes, are in rows in a box. Three were sold already…