Tom and Nancy were walking along the esplanade. ”You see that guy walking ahead of us, with the shorts on? The one with so much hair on his legs. You know, I’d been looking at that guy for at least five minutes before I realized that he was also wearing a pair of black nylon…
A lump in your groin. A burning in your discharge. You cannot quit the cigarettes or the entire nights spent refining the pointless game of billiards. Setting the smoke of drugs adrift on the afternoon light, you salvage up a time perhaps when spring made a car look great and mascaraed girls from the lunchroom…
Life was cheap in South America. Anything could happen there. That was one way. He was tired. That was another. So many of his erotic daydreams began that way. He’d lie in his bed and masturbate, usually just before he got up. Many of them had to do with the way they’d survive after an…
Oh my Sabine farm, when shall I see you, when again With old authors, with sleep and lazy hours Can I find sweet forgetfulness of painful life? Oh when will the beans (Pythagoras’ cousins!) lie close With the greens well oiled with fat bacon? Oh nights and feasts of the gods! when I and my…
* Euclid, alone, who looked in beauty’s heart, Assumed the whole was greater than the part; But Cantor, with the infinite in control, Proved that the part was equal to the whole. *Cantor’s Theorem: In an infinite class the whole is no greater than some of its parts.
I. Invocation It’s crazy to think one could describe them— Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eyes and ears— As though they were all alike any more Than sweeps, opticians, poets or masseurs. Moreover, they are for more than one reason Difficult to speak of seriously and freely, And I have never (even this is difficult…
How much too eloquent are the songs we sing. nothing we tell will tell how beautiful is the body. It does not belong even to him or her who lives in it. Beautiful the snail’s body which it bears laboriously in its way through the long garden. The old lady who lives next door has…
Urn that my aunt carried through Brazil with the ashes of her love turned pure mixed with the black dress the white apron the dark lips crystal urn sidesaddle urn sand urn eighteenth century urn urn wet with big tears and rain from the road crude urn carved by Andrade passion without peace or letup…
I listen at the door. Who’s dying, then? It’s like bird-watching. Who’s going to die next? Birds in the nest. Who knows about all this?
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