Poetry

You’ll find him listed under King, as in— Kong, brought back in chains,                         Kong on tour with Ringling Bros. see also: colossal metaphor, projected fear, reading Marcus Garvey and Du Bois. Photos on the wall: the early years— Kong in love, that boyish thatch of hair,                         Kong awry, gone off with our young…

An agony afoot, I burst into peacocks. Reverdy, all afternoon. Nothing is easy. It’s all broken nothing, ambiguous cold. In one poem a horse jumps over a hedge of sparks. The horseman is blue. And a bone or a flower is clouded with silence, everything engulfed in the peripheral. Somehow this produces in me pain,…

He opens the scullery door, and a sudden rush of wind, as raw as raw, brushes past him as he himself will brush past the stacks of straw that stood in earlier for Crow or Comanche tepees hung with scalps but tonight past muster, row upon row, for the foothills of the Alps. He opens…

The sum of things is the least of things. The dwarf loved the sovereign’s daughter repeatedly: at first, every morning, then he added on noon, then the army honed in like a giant umbrella. She was carried away like a dark subject until all that she felt and could not say hung like a nightworld…

There’s another man on my block who can’t sleep, I’m an admirer of his insomnia, it’s a tool like a glass of water is to thirst. In his case something like music is made, I know because my insomnia stalks his. Our street is lined with maples and has no streetlight and all the dogs…

The stars are filtering through a tree outside in the moon’s silent era. Reality is moving layer over layer like crystal spheres now called laws. The future is right behind your head; just over all horizons is the past. The soul sits looking at its offer.

It’s a pious coil? It could be But you wait to be sure. Your hair blown back by Hope and teased by failure, You grope the lone desert for Sorts. You feel you know Pubic Hair.                   You want to sing The correlations between mosquito bites. You want to do math The way bricks do…

Paint is what it is and what it ain’t. A shape or a shell, when dry, that can make what it was painted on seem extraneous. Like a house— who can imagine the canary-yellow smooth or rough integument slough off? And yet, if it did: if you were to take the supports out (the house…

Simple isn’t it? The way a fugue begins— a voice alone, another, then another— a mass of math and tangle, tumble, flash! stretto . . . Finally solo even dotted God with stars moves out. Nothing moves in.