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…
Half the town fits in the rearview mirror. One day the mirror falls from the windshield and the town shatters like a bad dream. You know how it is. One day you move to California. There is this club in Santa Monica—a renovated basement where you dance to songs about money. Your accomplice says there's…
The truck in the passing lane flings a stone squarely between my eyes in driving rain: November surprise. Arms of the windshield wiper flail like railroad crossing signs all the way to Seattle. I am leaving behind the scattered ash and the widow's double bed. Alone behind the wheel, I am comforted by old convent…
Six months later Sandra was found Murdered in a ditch. Lying With the blood Leaves. Scattered dirt Of Oregon. Four of us fucking A cheap motel on The limes of Van Buren. Then we Switched. Sandra slips On the wet tile Floor. These flakes Melt…
for Chris Benfey Before sleep last night I lay there in a reverie over L.A., and dreamt of it all night and put off getting up for fear it would go away. All my fears of flying dissipated at the thought of cruising in the air to Los Angeles. I was happy there. I said…
Retrieving forgotten coins from my Calvin Kleins— soggy poems in the pockets—I said with a native's pride, untangling my jeans from blue arms of a work shirt: Tomorrow I fly west with the wigeons and whistling ducks for a taste of summer. She looked up, folded the negligee, slinky as Diamond Lil's: But…
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