Poetry

I hate the psyche. Cloudy today: brown, carmine, and blue. I’m having a devilish time controlling my body’s two gods: theatric, tutelary. Last night I decided again to be a maniac, risking brain fever, like my father, whose temperature once rose to 108: impressive. In our house, only the sick were great.

Annual festival of the god of reborn souls and abandon, The young drunken one who dies and in springtime rises: From all over the City families come to the great amphitheater Bringing picnics of roast fowl, rounds of bread, cheeses, Preserved salt meats, clay jars of wine and citron water, Feasting all afternoon on the…

for César Vallejo To speak with a simple mouth. No more big words. Bread works. Butter, a long walk by the river works, salt, fog, wood. I know how to turn myself cold, to cut everything off— I can slice my heart to minnows, but it’s my wish to remain alive, God with and without…

Cryptic owl on my sill, olive branch in the gold-bowered cope, when I was a child I didn’t know what the word “colleague” meant: darkness? My father had many colleagues; I had none. I told his assistant, twenty-one years ago, “I wonder which I love most, words or music.” I can’t remember her advice, though…

i am a man’s head hunched in the road. i was chosen to speak by the members of my body. the arm as it pulled away pointed toward me, the hand opened once and was gone. why and why and why should I call a white man brother? who is the human in this place,…

for René Touzet Is music, then, a balcony from which a shuffling of passings is surmised, or is it mortar and archway, or must it be inkling, maestro, a suspicion of survivals? We sit in rows to watch ourselves listen to your danzas and contradanzas, the Cubanized European genres which define a certain buoyancy in…

According to her housemate, she is out with Bob tonight, and when she’s out with Bob you never know when she’ll get in. Bob is an English professor. Bob used to be in a motorcycle gang, or something, or maybe Bob rides a motorcycle now. How radical of you, Bob— I wish I could ride…

In the closet the dress lives, a deep white in its vinyl bag, eternal, the empire waist so stylish before her time and after, its crêpe ivoried, tartared like a tooth, feeding on what leaks through the zipper’s fervent mesh, an unmentionable, unworn, waiting, immortally in mind. Open a window, please, I’m feeling faint. On…

For his sake drifting away from the true windlessness, torn sails the aftermath of him: white canvas suffering too vaguely from the beautiful agreeing with these arguments, but far away: sought him, found him not, distant from image, archetype, the typical sublime’s encroachments, archaeology of his innocence which is to be destroyed. Shaped, shaping, shapes,…