Everywhere you walk someone else is walking beneath you, in a cave or a mine. You’re sure of it. No matter where you are you can drop to your knees and hear the damp invitations, the buzzing of a hollow, silent place. You’d rather think of it as a mine. Men go down in mines,…
She thought I was too old or too knowing. Her glance fixed on John and grew soft. That afternoon at Montmartre I lost them altogether though I knew who it was kissing hotly in the shade. I writhed all night recalling how her eyes switched on as she spoke of stepping out of her black…
O I feel so free now All the doors are open & all the birds I can hear from here are open too!
In 1593 Calingicus Wrote a tract on the mortality of birds. I do not desire to point out how much error Traces his diagrammatic sureness, only To say he saw the species at a new angle, Being somehow reminded in their motion Not of the dilated freedom we live in But of the tight chain…
An open shell, Two bone breasts In my sand hand. You next to me, Lobster red, Wild-eyed, embarrassed, Your claws empty, Our minds picked clean by the sun. And the next day our boat went down, Gulls laughing like tourists. Friends, old spongers, dropped by, Lead-headed divers, Squat gas pumps, worry Spinning in their amber…
(for Larry Eigner of Lynn) outside the window the Japanese pine is bentheavy w/snow & the yellow commune-house looks lk/somewherelse here in #2 i’m sackedout on the offthesidewalk couch brought from the old house & the house before. it’s quiet. the Salvation Army is quiet even on Sunday, the heads in the…
I Today the idea of writing poetry is generally an absurdity. Too many of us must come home from a day's routine labor before we can sit down to think and/or feel poetry within us. Flashes come and go during the working day and it is possible we see the world constantly through our poetic…
My hand falling As if to reach under it. My black thumb, black tongue, Tasting the tear of the moth wing. The milk skim of my eye torn, The thorned leg of the locust Probing the pin of oil, My last seeing. Knees unbending Like the last wave of ocean, Sheet of sky settling. A…
And so was I, the camera, instructed to pan the island’s landscape, to zoom toward its capitol city. My body snapped, reclattered and shuttered to the rapid rhythm of spent flash bulbs which left purple wisps of (MGM Exploits Standard Fruit) glassy smoke across the skies of the Northern Province. Typhoid babies sucked death while…
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