He sailed to wherever the sirens were, surviving by lashing himself to the mast. An image of stalwart resistance, or weakness. And the singers mere angels. And heaven only desire, simply the illegal. Sailed into the not-quite world. Or returned home to slay the suitors who had been feasting there for years. What about afterwards?…
Photograph found in the road: bejeweled hand gripping a limp cock. All parties suffering from lack of ambition. The hills of Tuscany won’t dapple with sunlight, and here it is nearly noon. You didn’t much want that leather jacket, the vendor didn’t really care to sell it, you hardly tried it on, he barely praised…
The women said, “You wished the rain on us and now you are leaving.” They kept the rain and I left. The muck of that place stayed on my shoes for a mile and then it was a new road with a sour mud and red cliffs and a wind better than a sweetheart….
after Ou-yang Hsiu In my kiosk for one, I, for one, water- colored on the grounds for concern. And everywhere I ever lived pined on a cinderblock in pencil. The rubbing may give you ideas. The princess never felt it more, the underlying in pursuit, lodged, a tiny drum in coverage and coverage of coverage….
Shame is my sister. She’ll have no niece. Agree in me a tenancy of junction and a process of elimination. One has promises and room for whom to keep herself. A pinkening vibe, as from exit light in other halls, mother-runs this cloister of disavowal, and in the sobbed-inside cells locked to mine I imagine…
Forgive us, we don’t exactly believe or disbelieve What the President tells us regarding the great issues Of peace, justice, and war—skeptical, but distracted By the swarm of things. The young Romanian poet in LA Said shyly: “In Romania, bums are only bums, but here In America the bum pushes a cart loaded with his…
for Bill Handley We have only the Book of the Infinite to guide us and how we interpret its unthinkable premise: this life then an afterlife. At the end of his, he saw blue. I was told this. Eyes upturned drawing the sky into one extended remembrance of a present. I was told…
Every shadow spoke. They listened to the words until they inhabited them, had them on the tongue and in the brain, where we, who do not act, reside. In that image-making niche, they appeared to be like us: a simulacrum so perfect it hurt. They could take us in and give us out like any…
sole residue of written wisdom as actualized by things. Christ if the tulips shudder. Here the grass is rain-flattened and may not re-spring. What can one person say to another? The master is the master? The children are playing on the shore? To this language, the heron on the sandbar does not answer. Objects sought…
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