This morning’s hothouse: a pornography. All my darlings pressing up to watch My fan-dance, velvet spathe flourishing Open to my hidden plush. I will peel down To my inmost creases for you, and your camera Will snap and whine, but we both know You’re not after some glossy shot For your desktop botanical. What you…
meanwhile, back at the castle… the fan made in Taiwan is sputtering. the boring commercials for male enhancement and arthritis cures blare. someone’s dragging their feet. the idiot thugsta in the spanking convertible corners curbside, speakers on boom. space shuttle Discovery cracks the atmosphere. the effing faucet is dripping. the thousand sparrows are singing down…
Varick, yes. Just—oh, Film Forum, sure. Go straight down Carmine and turn left. Wait, did I say to turn onto Houston after Varick? Actually, I’m walking that way. You’re welcome. Actually, you can turn here, before Varick: this street dead ends at Film Forum. In fact, I’m going to Film Forum. Would you like me…
1 my eyes are as big and Grimm as china saucers but this is no fairytale. i do my daily doings hurried to purposeful distraction, a couple of snits or fits if things work out—anything to keep my muddling mind off those kith among those missing if i’m lucky the headlines will be so outrageous…
A tang approaches, like the smell of snow. Illness like a color deepens— pale gray, thick-in-a-cloak gray, secret coat silk, and finally the weight of rough pelts heaped on the bed. The last enchantment of the day is tearing pages out of a book. The paper soft and thin, like falling asleep (a hand backstage…
Passing the pears over the electronic scanner, she says These are beautiful. Look at the markings! And: I don’t know the story of where they’re from. But I believe they are just right. And passing the figs: So complex, what’s on the inside. Everything worthwhile has a kind of mystery. I don’t bother with it…
A space to rise in, made from what falls, from the very mass it’s cleared from, cut, carved, chiseled, fluted or curved into a space there is no end to at night when the stained glass behind the altar could be stone too, obsidian, or basalt, for all the light there is. At night,…
Anger doesn’t catch the light like laughter, but with my friend it seems to crowd him, seems to complicate his neck and jaw. It’s not just that. It’s made him fat. We’ve only walked two blocks and he’s wheezing when we reach Walgreens. A wind-fixed scent of diesel passes. I hate my job, he says,…
1 I was hired to finish interiors in Cloverdale but I didn’t know how: how to pry open the zinc-tabbed five-gallon tub: how to slide out the balsa paddle without leaving a maze of white dots on oak parquet: how deep and long to dip the bristle: perhaps it was a problem of language: paint…
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