Count on the storm to steel the waves, tin their shimmer and heave. The electric cracks sheen the air, particle its vapors, and the wind that’s coming has already moved the sea, miles off. Shoreside, we sense the sea has breathed in and readies. Now, oiled by the hovering cobalt, it simply rolls within itself…
Rain spills leaf to leaf, rips some down the chilly greenblack air, falls and falls until it tamps October’s ripened ground that sponges up big plans. Sheet lightning popped across the water and rubbed things raw. The rain’s tinny cymbal-brushing rushes our nerves—we’ll live how long to hear it? Eighty today, Gracey on the back…
We all had to wear hats against the unvarying sun, Of course; but what was more significant, We’d had to bring with us—along with our freshly prepared Thoughts, wrapped up in the old way—bottled light To quench any thirst for knowledge that walking through the dry Valley of grayish terebinths and still Lizards on chunks…
tell me baby, what’s the matter now aw, you trying to quit me baby, but you don’t know how —Billie Holiday you can’t keep track of what’s what calling it what it’s not but stir shade & heavy cream into coffee & there’s breath-flash clean as knife-wind in the brain blown down the full length…
I wander down rows of plastic magic—glowing The boy comes home to a house too full of skulls and x-ray specs squeezed in next to sneeze dust decoupage and dead dreams, his mother nearly adrift in genie bottles, fake ice where flies swim frozen, on the dhurrie beige couch, worn down with being arrested, ruled…
1. My sea-blue father Left me Heart-burst Broke as a dune does Not glass, no cracks A surge of softness Slid down my throat To stifle, for good, Unendingness. 2. My own me was haunted by a shovel That chased me through the trees. It called Hurry home to Mummy And her theater of the…
Boarding the local at Midtown, all seats taken, he worked his way through the car with firm lean arm from his black T-shirt pulling him down the high stainless-steel handrail. Through that forest of bodies flashed his teeth: in spasms his lips would pull back and his eyes rage, then calm. Neat, perhaps thirty, the…
I rode the Greyhound watching the twitchy things of the North give way to the sticky, bloodshot things of the South. No ground so burnt there’s not a church where I heard the Reverend Al Green amplify, rarefy, and glorify the word so that we were in some state of sweating July. The ashy black…
A whole lifetime in the middle, no wonder we crave and fear beginnings and ends. We want to see Highway 80 vanish into the Pacific waves, Tolstoy as a baby trying to hold a pencil. And this endless mess of photos, could that really be Grandfather dressed like a little girl, Mother with flowers in…
No products in the cart.