Poetry

in terms of design one box is colored orange the one you wanted always is and sits in the bathroom of anyone’s house cause that’s what she wants it’s choosing that wakes things up I wondered how long all that I needed and encountered here would come like a wave not the shake but the…

Everything recedes With such grand effort. A morsel On the winter palace floor. In the trees Up ahead, a light goes out, asleep In her summer arms. Hate is born As a monument to our inattention and the blind Greed of disbelief. Even the heroin addict has more Conviction, morbidly patient with his addiction. Work,…

It is so and so and not the dusty world who drops. It is their mother and not the dusty world who drops them. Why I imagine her so often empty-handed as houseboats’ distant lights rise and fall on the far ripples— I do not know. I know that darkness. Have stood on that bridge…

but don’t read this poem whose title implies I think you’re old but you are at least older than me time passing makes everyone old unless death and I don’t want that which is not to say I’m terrified but don’t not read this poem because you’ve died! I’d rather insult you what I mean…

César Vallejo, Arago Clinic, Paris, Holy Friday April 15, 1938 It was you, César, they killed to the base of your forefinger, you. Certainly they shot Pedro Rojas too. No doubt Juana Vasquez was killed. The killers, poor also, were skilled. And Emilio, they shot him, in the back of the neck, after they made…

for Sangchen Tsomo   Today it looks like a radiant darkness within the body and the sound of the dove in morning and evening and how the machine of my mind is never silent and how I pray for silence like a rain cloud combed through branches. Or the dove’s slow sound above last year’s…

You said yourself, if it has a mouth you mustn’t trust it. May you lose this fight. Dragging the double-blade over your leg in the shower you think of his face. Such power you found in bathing him, his tattoos—needled with guitar strings and Bic ink while others kept watch down-tier: a woman with seven…

3 In hospital I convalesced and read the melodrama presented in Le Figaro: “On the morning of 16 November, it is alleged, Professor of Philosophy Louis Althusser strangled his wife during what has been ruled a psychotic break.” I am not psychotic, though I have indeed killed my wife. She is dead, it’s true. Not…

What a reprieve from all this stultifying heat. And all the threats implicit in that heat: the sweep and snare of blackberry, razor barb of concertina wire. The bluish teasel nearly chafed you with its bracts. You’ve made it through some muck with your absolute body still intact. So far, the Camp Far West lake…