Poetry

Dear Larry: Looks like I won't need to borrow the car after all: the trip to L.A. is out of the question. I didn't know a life could break down like a chemical. Salt. Plutonium. The odorless noose of carbon monoxide. Up north a few years back, a group of kids committed mass suicide in…

I keep my eye on the desert room floating with silver and black blades, the shadows of date palms in the hands of the vanished magician. He is silent, missing repeatedly the lady in the white box. She's made an austere retreat into yet another nothing, into my own approval of not-doing in this heat!…

At twenty, John Berryman raised a fountain pen and wrote, Lear walked his patience by the sea And learned nothing. At the same age, Under the Fresno sun, I was saying to myself, I could get fifty bucks for my Rambler. The car had killed three stripeless cats And splattered a continent of butterflies. I…

Someone asked me once if the world changed whenever I crossed from one language to the other. She said she noticed how my voice changed. I listened to myself: it was the same voice, the same man speaking a strange language. I wondered about my face—if a certain look might be possible only in one…

I knock over the bottle of wine. It pours over my feet, cold, leaving a purple stain. This is private land. He is holding a gun. He tries to see between my thighs. The wine is sticky. I don't move. What are you doing? Screwing out here? Like we're the crazy ones. I want to…

It's staying light later, and through the pyracantha, Through memory and its prickly blood, A teenage boy combs his hair two healthy ways, A flood of rainwater flowing at his floppy shoes, The rain loosening the oils of the street, Freeing the clenched buds on a plum tree. He combs his hair. Something has to…

Try to think of Palm Springs as a breast, a nipple of dust crumbling on itself. I don't know how else to put it. The earth trembles beneath us like a loud cancer spreading, leaving scars everywhere. The desert is in bloom this time of year—purple and yellow flowers growing all the way to Nevada,…

reshuffling itself over and over again I, the I better than Elvis coming out the mouth of Jesus, knowing the fame which only comes from death. you explain. there is something muddy in the street. it rises in a fiery madness beyond pretense, says: I transcend. noticing itself, falls back from air to mud. the…

I had this dream that a river Ran beneath my bedroom window And a pretty woman With dark hair and dark skin Was swimming in the dark water below. But somehow, strangely, I wasn't In the river myself. I couldn't enter my own dream. I can't think of a damn thing to do. Paranoia really…