The painter Alex Alexander was sitting in his tower studio in the old Hall of the Arts watching the A.M.'s slow progress toward a January high noon, and the students below more slowly trudging off toward enlightenment, when they brought him the message that his dealer had called from New York. "You're made, Alex!" Philbert…
I In learning a foreign language Leave a red mark by each word You look up in the dictionary When you look up a word And find a red mark by it Cut off one joint of your finger With the dullest possible knife II In mathematics try to remember That the answer is always…
(for Jane) “I fly to my dreams from my bed at night” sauntered Jane/ through a conversation. I the wind, the scarf of a trailing sky swoop on the figure appearing as a calander wearing its months back to front, while the weeks dropped out with the days listening to the song that the birds…
We were learning How to live Out here, Out of nothing. Our claim On this raw country Was simply having Nowhere else to go. We found These lands Could destroy The nerves we lived on: The sick ironic harmonica Playing on the fire at night. The immensity of those nights. The tired roseate Spectacular That…
no wrong but to harm others? * * * what harms others? * * * there is nothing but your (my) naked being. anyone can put his hand on my cock or her tongue up my ass. * * * if it feels good, it is good? it might feel good to crack someone’s sky. * * * then…
Random frames from the flow of time Are dealt like hands of solitaire Or perhaps a fortune being told. An unknown woman in Victorian dress Is sitting, back-turned by a lake, Blond hair across her shoulder; A cat drinks water from a tap. The smiling faces of strangers and friends Arrange themselves in no strict…
It is Because I am Obsessed with This thing. . . . It overtakes me. Do I conjure it Out of space, Scratching its Sound on paper In the tilted gazebo? I only know I Do hear it — there. I am brushed by The precise flit Of its shadow, Enervated by Each visitation. Like…
excerpt from a novel in progress (. . .Anna Maye Potts is thirty-six, fat, unmarried; since her mother's death some twenty years ago, she has been keeping house for her father and working days in a nearby candy factory. Now her father is dead too, and her younger sister, Mary, who is married and has…
Nous five-o’clockerons àminuit. “Will you have aspirin in your ink?” “Thank you. I prefer it black.” I bled a little into the milk to give it a character of my own. “I see you have a character of your own.” “I like the taste of my own overripe fruit.” We were silent while he sipped…
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