Something is wrong. Something is always wrong within the shush and chaos of the valves, measured drumming in the stirrups of the ear, systole and diastole, something is wrong in the sickroom of the body, & deep in the marrow the cells are born deep in the marrow the cells learn fight How clever the…
In the year 1946 a young sailor came bounding up the stairs, leapt into the kitchen, and with his arms spread out, exclaimed, “I'm home!” We stared at him silently. Mother, brothers, and sisters. But not his mother, brothers, and sisters. “Sorry,” he said, “wrong house.” I wonder what became of him? Is he still…
Here is the infant formula plant missed by a hair's breath next to it here is the biological research facility bombed with advanced machinery of pinpoint accuracy Here are the small women and large babies the medium-sized women with tiny children and the large, the tall women with shrinking babies and here are the former…
Wyoming, 1943 Someone clever has carved a deer out of a scrap of wood and set it on a table or shelf inside a shabby room among a file of barracks, along a street of sleep. In its miniature dawn, its hues are gradually revealed, its legs regain their poise, its eyes open. Someone clever…
yesterday, in new york city the gravediggers went on strike & today, the undertakers went on strike because, they said, of the overwhelming number of corpses stretched out on tables in the overworked, embalming rooms (unnecessarily, they said, because of wars & plenty stupid killings in the streets & et cetera & et cetera, et…
1 Immigration Master Oki played the word from its scabbard, counted by tens, shouting the colors of decades. Centuries are best worn with their collars showing, he gibed. Grab time by the neck, make it speak truth while the record plays and the money's unspent. He crawled into a season, its leaves were damp and…
for K. Curtis Lyle within an avalanche of glory hallelujah skybreaks spraying syllables on the run, spreading sheets, waving holy sounds, solos sluicing african bound transformed in america into hoodoo, inside tonguing blues snaking horns, where juju grounds down sacred chords up in the gritty foofoo where fleet rounds of cadences whirlpool as in rivers,…
1. Tomatoes are not a poignant fruit, not with their wide, affable faces, their compliances with the eager knife. They recline in slices on the cutting board, all their operations a success. Their miniatures pose shinily in salad bowls, beaded with moisture, bathing in exotic dressings. When you bite them whole, they squeal in delight….
In this wrecking yard, our home I turn over to you, a garden you planted long ago with her. Prepared the space cleared, hoed, and seeded. Now in profusion from these rusted, twisted coffins her flowers And before her, you said there were many. Many. This time the exchange in books Home Gardens for poetry,…
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