When she had been dead all spring I called again, remembering the beings in the texts who get to spin around in both worlds; I wanted to see if what had been hers was still hers, if what was mine, was mine; she appeared in one of the gold rings they use to keep the…
My basic continuous ‘work-in-progress' consists of a dozen or so simultaneous channels, which I draw upon in succession, daily. The channels are: dreams; sexual fantasies; sexual occasions; found images; improvisations and observations; first imagery notes (all these are in single spacing); prose drafts (1 ½ spacing); first verse drafts (single spacing); intermediary verse drafts (alternating…
I. Looking everywhere, there's no one around to ease my gloom. I'll make friends with the moon. II. This autumn moon despises one who clouds this sky with teary eyes. III. What can one do? Sigh heavily over the moon, bathed in its beautiful light? Tears, tears and sighs. IV. You stole my heart. Now,…
—The mind asks the question; the heart is hurt by the unknown; you didn't have to take care of the dead one for she could still love what came forth though it seemed to you like suffering— too hard for you? Listen. You don't have to do anything. The raccoon is in the garbage can,…
I don't have any grand theoretical scheme into which I'm going to fit these six poems, but I know the theme I want the sequence to crystallize around. This is the hallucinatory savagery of life in New York City, the spectacular contrasts and the squalor of those caught on the margins. The sequence will also…
bound in friendship nest in a single tree. One watches the world. The other feeds on sweet fruit. The Self, weary of pecking about, sinks into despair. Through meditation, personal self comprehends impersonal self: The Spirit soars! When Sage and Spirit are united, Lingam and yoni, good and evil Vanish: they are one. Only in…
What follows comes late in a book-length sequence of poems, with some interleaved prose, that recounts one imagined life through another. The imagined life is my own, or that of a writing double that insists it is not the workaday figure who answers to my name. The other biography, and the one the sequence is…
The idea for The World Pub seemed a whimsy at first, but now I'm sure it wasn't. I fantasized a place with that name in some unspecified suburb of some unspecified metropolis, at once real and imaginary. Persons of all ranks, historical or mythical, from any time past or present or future, could be found…
No one, Herakleitos said, crosses the same river twice. True enough. Every gain's composed of losses. Think, as Robert Duncan has, of years as catches where only that which one loves well surpasses our diurnal habit of suffering and folly. Years pass, crawling into years. Too damned bad for one who worships childhood or youth….
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