and then he turned it upside down in the garage where he consideredits half-painted, dull fuchsia, cast-iron belly and drain hole fixedwith what looked like a sawed-off copper snorkel, and how it restedon its gunwales that now were gutters. Something to behold so he beheld it. Its eponymous feet he arranged on a table, like…
I once believed we all have one chance to love deeply,an opportunity not only in the business of flesh and heartbut in the loneliness of the soul, and if we miss it,as I thought I had on June 15, 1976, waking up in my roomthat fronted Half-Moon Lane, Herne Hill, London,listening to the dieseling idle…
Looking for the strange places, we becomeenvious of whatever crawls from underrocks and out of seashells. We invented thisnew ocean, this nameless waterway to anothersundial strewn city. We look for all the minusculetheaters enacting moss-covered recitationsand pastoral renditions. This must be whatwe wanted, what we planned for and opened a newmine to locate. It makes…
Translated by Gustavo Pérez Firmat Life is too short. We’re always running late.Not enough days in our livesto learn anything. You wake up,you hug your girlfriend,you have breakfast, you work,you eat, you sleep, you watch a movieand you don’t even have timeto read Seneca and convince yourselfthat there’s nothing in the worldthat can’t be fixed….
Translated by Gustavo Pérez Firmat She gave me a brief, hard hug,one of those you feel downto your toenails, a mortal leapinto life, an incandescentcaress, the kind that doesn’t lastbut scalds, sudden and fleeting:a spell rather than a squeeze.To be embraced like this oncein a while is irrefutable proofthat, sometimes, life providesarguments against loneliness.
When I imagine the dead I think of them doing absolutely nothing. Every morninga tiny red anthas left bites up my arm. I’m not god as far as I know, though it’s possible. Mostly I feel like a child or elder, or a thing scraped together from what’s in between. One wants the blue indifference of…
All I beg of this blighted yearis to wake up well-sleptearly one August morningand to pull on yesterday’sclothes and ride the mile or twoto the deli on Brackett Roadwhen the sun is soft and lowand the waves in the distance soundlike a second breeze and to leanmy bike against the picnic tableand on my way…
When you’re in a helicopter with ableeding brain and the pilot reassuresyou it’s a beautiful night to fly,it’s hard to know whether to feelrelieved. I suppose that’s betterthan an iffy or a terrible night to fly.Though isn’t every night a terriblenight to fly with a bleeding brain. And would dying in a helicopter be worsethan…
What is this thing that must be won by experience?It has me walking on sidewalks next to myself, bothselves watching women and men coming toward us,the fruit vendors and lovers— I wonder about the husband and wife, she collectsmoney and bags the fruit, he loads and unloads, and they alwaysseem cold, her face chapped by…
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