Poetry

What will you write about your final day?On that last page the words require truth’s grain. What use is one more journey’s destination?The sweet surprises of another day? What, when the great fire roars through your home?What, when the earth’s fault slips with its sundering? What passion can you kindle to survive them?No, no, none…

It’s alright to overdress for the riot. Your rage is stunning.It’s alright to pursue the wrong pleasures and the right suffering.Here’s my permission. Take it. It’s alright to replace a siren with a bell. Let the emergency make some music. It’s alrightthat the meter reader broke your sunflower in half. You knewbetter than to plant…

for the ladies at Florence House The fact of April first means nothingother than the rent check is due & spring or not we are all tenants of snow today& I have no children under my apron nor angelsgracing my back & the women chew slowlywhile it thickens beyond the window pane & the fact…

You’d better believe that if I hadn’t already tied the knot                on these sweatpants I’d be out there in the mad brick city                                painting my lips the only red my complexion will allow,                maybe with some heels on, I could probably find some heelsor at least borrow some, well first make some friends                in this city that shuts itself…

i.m. Kathleen Roche (1982-2018) God of all comfort, closeyour hand over the tract                                                 houses of Livingston—lay shadow on the subdividedland of Christmas lights                                                 and cul-de-sacsand minivans—withdrawthe mortar from the bricks                                                 that bind the staggeredtownhomes and crackedchimneys over white-trimmed                                                 condominiums—swallow the mailboxesdown into the loam beneath                                                 each quarter-acrelawn—pull back the plotsof mulch and patchwork                                                 sod until they spilllike sewage through the streetsand…

The sickening canal retains a gruesome beauty. Today, the weather haswaxed psychotic—chilly rainy in the morning, humid and dense as itgrew hot, sunny for a second, and now the bluish gray of photographsof Eastern Europe flows from the train bridge into the sky. On thesurface of the water, a cascade of soap scum rises to…

We feel we have felt felt. We have felt what felt we have. Havefelt. Feel. We feel what felt we felt is not what felt felt is. Whatwe have, we feel. What felt we have! Feel! Feel not what is, feelwhat felt is not. Not we, not felt. Is is is? We is what we…

Picture civilizations like sparse swarms of fireflies, space/timelike the evening air in which they’re suspended. Each bug flashesindependently, never simultaneously, randomly announcing itselfwithout regard for its distance from another or for the duration of itslight. That one there! That one is us! Doesn’t it lately seem a foregoneconclusion that the psychotic combination of our science,…

for Anna Maria Hong The master believes himself superior to his slaves. He desires comfort.He considers security and prosperity his birthrights. He prefers toignore the labor required to create his luxurious world. He often failsto acknowledge the extravagance of his environment by comparingit unfavorably to the surroundings of more prosperous people. Heignores anything that challenges…