Bach must have known how something flutters away when you turn to face the face you caught sideways in a mirror in a hall at dusk and how the smell of apples in a bowl can stop the heart from beating, for an instant, between sink and stove in the dead of winter when stars…
There is no excitement in the dove's call. We think we know what he means, and that he would say it whether or not we heard. We think there is a garden lined with poplars and wrought-iron benches, painted white, where obedient children sit studying shadows among the pebbles along the walks. In this garden…
“While I go through the procedures expected of me (pouring milk on cornflakes, complaining about homework, playing a game of catch with my father) I observe, I collect evidence until I become certain: They are all actors — mother, students at school, father, salesmen in stores, bus drivers; crowds walking on the Green or sunbathing…
After vespers, after the first snow has fallen to its squalls, after New Wave, after the anorectics have curled into their geometric forms, after the man with the apparition in his one bad eye has done red things behind the curtain of the lid and sleeps, after the fallout shelter in the elementary school has…
“But where will Marcos go?” It's Bruce Lee, last of the Chieu Hois. Taro reading: the Haoles are losing their pois. The barfed-on offer their excusez-mois Hey hey. Thanks for the memo. Un; deux; trois; Banjoist kotoist jingoist Maoist Hoist, the one-man all-girl hula group gets bois trouser and boistrouser half Piaf half ois eau-lyre…
O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed. —Sleep and Poetry My Darling C, There is something to be said for Nature after all, dusk pending, variable stars. I have had a change in luminosity. All winter long,…
Our message to the world. Our Galilean artifact up there. Our pagean try our puffery our paean. Sheer heroism. Sean Connery down mean dering mean ducts. To the perfect Jean Valjean getaway. Through a time-bombed ocean. Our gadgetman our dreamboat our DeLorean doing the bluejean limbo leading the mangroves their cerulean elverings and rean…
Dear Philip— The rain. It held off for Marni's graduation this afternoon. Yesterday I wrote you but you were two days a dead man, Jon called this morning to say. “Oh No, no,” is this what we always let out? “Oh no,” and “At least he . . .” Well, you did live by force…
Because I'm up in Air Force One I get to wear my gold-braid baseball cap. And stand before the map of New El Salvador explaining which came first our game of chicken or the other guy's. And burst into applause because. But you know what I miss, all by myself like this? The motorized advance…
No products in the cart.