Three months after he lies dead, that long yellow narrow body, not like Christ but like one of his saints, the naked ones in the paintings whose bodies are done in gilt, all knees and raw ribs, the ones who died of nettles, bile, the one who died roasted over a slow fire— three months…
When I take you in my mouth, it is all just a matter of identity. I study the weather reports. In a photo essay of Sun Valley Ski Lodge, under her picture, there is this: “Sonja Henie starred in Sun Valley Serenade BUT NEVER VISITED THE PLACE.” Wait, I think hear the phone. The child,…
About eight of us were nailing up forts in the mulberry grove behind Reds' house when his mother started screeching and all of us froze except Reds—fourteen, huge as a hippo—who sprang out of the tree so fast the branch nearly bobbed me off. So fast, he hit the ground running, hammer in hand, and…
Sweet Jesus, talking his melancholy madness, stood up in the boat and the sea lay down, silky and sorry. So everybody was saved that night. But you know how it is when something different crosses the threshold—the uncles mutter together, the women walk away, the young…
To find a bit of thread But twisted In a peculiar way And fallen In an unlikely place A black thread Before the mystery Of the closed door The greater mystery Of the four bare walls And catch oneself thinking Do I know anyone Wearing such dark garments Already worn to threads First thing in…
for Galina Gabay Green rivers run in February at the curbsides. Moscow is so huge, the snow so deep that when once the melt starts, nothing can stop it. People rejoice at that rushing water as we do at the first snow drops. We walk around goony in mid-March. “Fifty-one degrees,” we say. The sun…
For Willem Dafoe, Ron Vawter & The Wooster Group 1 So how’s it going, folks?— broke, exhausted, shtuped and duped again. You can take it. Hell, the meaning of life is taking it, in the mouth, the ass, the— o-o-o-h it feels so good. All together now, stand up, bend over and say a-a-a-h. Now…
Twelve murderers are eating their dinners, veal cutlet and walnuts, pickled pigs' feet. Somebody sticks his head through the door. The inevitable question is asked. Not me, says Biter; nor me, says Shooter. We didn't do it, says Choker and Stabber. Nor me, nor me, say all the others. The door closes with a bang….
The man with the muscles He'll kill her Naw, he just ‘instructs' her Opera operate. Opt. Opponents. He-man lift her up and slam her down Will she land on her ass or spine? Hand-become-hammer He gonna break her neck some time No matter how many or whose side Bludgeons. Do harm, make cry. Plow ponies…
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