Poetry

It was not spring but spring seemed on its way That winter’s day that sun and wine had warmed For us, at leisure (one might almost say At peace), although the city’s sidewalks swarmed With people not too different from our own. But whether it was splendour or a slum Through which we walked, we…

I The noon dazes us, a brilliant back-beater. II Like hands slapping the water, ducks settle. III Shakedown time: fall trees fork over to the winds. IV Cornfields craze the wild crows, raucous on the fence. V This, this, this: like a stick against fence pickets.

Two straight days of sun and the idiot magnolia opens Boston, to cleanse it, pull the bullet of winter. I feel better. The bodies in the river thaw to neon fish, and clouds, sculling. There’s no telling when it will snow again. Blossoms are words in the long-winded streets: landed absences, long-distance calls for relief….

it’s lonely in here loneliness is hard            it’s frightening to think one might always be alone. One      be alone forever there are the window sounds      wall sounds            neighbors how can we be close together      and not in one another’s arms?            the lucky people who have found lovers grow spoiled & demanding

no wrong but to harm others? *     *      * what harms others? *     *      * there is nothing but your (my) naked being. anyone can put his hand on my cock or her tongue up my ass. *     *      * if it feels good, it is good? it might feel good to crack someone’s sky. *     *      * then…

I keep going to my own funeral with a spade to help the gravedigger and a transistor radio playing pop and rock to put on the side of the grave because I might get down among the dead and I am afraid of the bones. What if they should get up and squeak No room…

We were learning How to live Out here, Out of nothing. Our claim On this raw country Was simply having Nowhere else to go. We found These lands Could destroy The nerves we lived on: The sick ironic harmonica Playing on the fire at night. The immensity of those nights. The tired roseate Spectacular That…

1. A loutish lummox lay a-dozing, Flat on his face, his arse exposing Unto the sun, with cheeks spread wide; When lo! a beetle crawled inside The grandly gaping aperture. Needless to say, the brutish boor Awoke at once, in pain, and hied him Straight to the doctor, who, to chide him Told him he…

Beneath this city, lies a city, nine stone repetitions of the Rise and Fall in vertical complexity. One wall, its roots in layer one, depicts the line of ancestries. Nine masons hewed a vine of stone which bloomed nine times. Each blooming, small in minutes, is repeated, and appalling centuries of stone leave us their…