Poetry

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” —Janis Joplin But when you lose it’s only you and the hard wood maple floor beneath you, your shoulders pinned down, wet shirt on a     clothesline by the knees of a god leather-clad in medieval thigh-highs. He forces you to repeat or he’ll show you…

Bird shit streaking down the backs of Adirondack chairs, a naked woman sketching. Is the point of art to know what hands will do? For a moment she looks up, then resumes.

Nothing is flat-lit and tabula rasaed in Charlottesville, Umbrian sackcloth,                                  stigmata and Stabat mater, A sleep and a death away, Night, and a sleep and a death away— Light’s frost-fired and Byzantine here,                                                                aureate, beehived, Falling in Heraclitean streams Through my neighbor’s maple trees. There’s nothing medieval and two-dimensional in our town, October…

In order for a rapprochement with the physical body Only necromancy could be behind it. Racked on a stretcher the I.V. tubes string me up like a cello without a player   Only necromancy could be behind it. These days of horse-drawn betrayal. Like a cello without a player I’m caught, a crown of thorns,…

But later, to teach myself humility I worked exclusively with breath, with the insubstantial, with what does not last, not leave a record behind those streamers, those ribbons we trail from our bodies banners, flags of the living excrement of the mouth and lungs, though we do not like to think that the spirit is…

October in mission creep,                                            autumnal reprise and stand down. The more reality takes shape, the more it loses intensity— Synaptic uncertainty, Electrical surge and quick lick of the minus sign, Tightening of the force field Wherein our forms are shaped and shapes formed,                                  wherein we pare ourselves to our attitudes . . ….

The speaker is the young black man Susan Smith claimed kidnapped her children.     Though it’s common belief That Susan Smith willed me alive At the moment Her babies sank into the lake   When called, I come. My job is to get things done. I am piecemeal. I make my living by taking…

1. The Eskimo children balance their blackboards on their knees and write with soft fat chalk. A storm skitters across the frozen sea. Smidgeons of ice have swirled into pinwheels. 2. The painter Magritte is dabbing black paint on his canvas. Beneath the clock he writes “wind,” beneath the door “horse.” 3. The Eskimo children…

Narcissist #1 I’m so amazing I could lick myself.   Narcissist #2 Did you see how well I licked myself?   Narcissist #3 I was so upset. They barely noticed the way I licked myself.