In Paris, Vallejo’s hotel near the Bibliothèque Nationale charges a hundred a night, and Ginsberg’s seedy room on the rue Git-le-coeur sports flowered wallpaper now, and a couple of Michelin stars. Cabourg’s Grand Hôtel on the chilly Normandy coast, nearly driven from business by the sunny “costas” of Spain, rents “Chambre Marcel Proust” for twice…
After I flung you down at last onto the bed because it was two a.m. and you’d been crying for hours, it seemed, and would not stop, all my comforting defeated, spent; because you were too frantic by then to say what it was you wanted, sobbing too much to say it, though you kept…
When you shut your eyes to daydream, you’re really imagining the face of God, who, in the fifties, assumed the face of Mrs. Oshkenozi, who sat in her apartment window handing glasses of tap water to boys in pursuit of perfect stickball. Grandpa & his compatriots puffed unfiltered Camels & flirted with imperfect hands of…
The first one was in Michigan and I loved him like I was digging in a foreign land and he was the ruin I came to discover. Michigan is as cold as people imagine and when I remember him now he is leaned against one of those gaudy American cars, big…
Right now the men put aside their composing sticks and settle by the hellbox chatting in groups that never seem to vary from day to day. Naturally I’m anxious to fit in naturally, to be considered one amongst metal men and composers. I hesitate on the edge of the…
A noose of moonlight— I think I see what my father saw That night when he went out To the leaning barn— He followed the light, Scared up some rope in the tack room To toss over the beam. The wind rending itself through barbed fences. I found him The next morning, Kneeling…
“La poésie vit d’insomnie perpétuelle.” —Rene Char There’s a sickness in me. During the night I wake up & it’s brought a stain into my mouth, as if an ocean has risen & left back a stink on the rocks of my teeth. I stink. My mouth is ugly, human stink. A color like rust…
The bass we catch is too big with years, its dark stripes notched and wavering like a cut trunk’s rings. We drag it over the gunnel, stand back, and no one will touch it, at first. The children cry and want it gone. And when we do let it go, it is not out of…
Saturday, Eighth and Broadway, a dozen turtles the color of crushed mint try for the ruby rim of a white enamel bowl on the sidewalk, wet jade jewel cases climbing two or three times the length of their bodies toward heaven till the slick sides of the bowl send them sliding back into their brothers’…
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