A word I can’t remember some black hawk of a word flew out of you at uninsurable speed but with a 4th grade pitch & intonation to it it sounded something like instinctual tho wasn’t— it must have surprised me so as to give me amnesia— and where did that come from I wondered what…
1. Tonight the clouds resemble French surrealists soft and electric and hot to the touch hustling north from the New York Public Library as if to grab the lease of the vacant apartment on E. 49th Street Frank O’Hara rented for $31 a month in 1952. Poor clouds. They have no sense of time and…
Make room, said he to the haystack. The point is great; take that; your groom arrives. Lie back; spread grass; never a borrower be. Rakes groom, he said, fakes doom—though choosers don’t mind beggars. Said the haystack: It’s a wedding night, so I’ll keep one eye half shut. (Clothes do make the man, said the…
You drove all night through thunderstorms, the PA turnpike slick and narrow in the passes. The tractor-trailers roaring, and sleep whistling past your ears . . . My heart was where a hundred roads converged & then moved on At one point you drove under a mountain. Later the sun unfolded over the…
From here it looks like forgiveness, the possibility of a man: himself a meadow I traverse by sight, by feel, hand over hand across the green of him, eyelight by eyelight until I take him all in. Or is it just the front yard again, azaleas, hot pepper plants, and a stand of pampas grass…
Replace “snow” with “sparks” and see if the moral survives. Lie down and make a spark angel. Then replace “angel” with “angle” and see if morality survives. Our liberal society depends upon the difference of each flake and the capacity of the different flakes to form a drift. I looked down into my bowl of…
It started with my mother using the walker to get from her bedside to the bathroom and me saying wow, and wonderful. It started one morning when my mother looked in the mirror and asked: Who the fuck is that? Disgusted. It started with the medicines: the ones that make her cheeks…
I agree with the central conclusion of all pop songs: you’re gorgeous and I’m angry. You walked into the party like the last thing you’d ever do was walk onto a yacht. In the hospital, I had time to consider the ever-so-slightly corrupt taste of your freshly cleaned armpits. I was always feverish to pry…
Halfway through the song I catch her, Irma Thomas and her band slowing down the heart in a 6/8 swing. How many quarters did I once pour like honey down the jukebox’s throat to make her sing again? That was Markey’s Bar. I found some peace there but can’t drink it back. This is California…
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