And didn’t I make you? Didn’t I shapethe notes you bend your body round? Didn’t Itag your streets and cityscapes with hue?Even your style—which you think is yours—didn’t I hand it over, like something momma-made,big enough for you to grow into? My wordsin your mouth. The words you use every day,all that old school and…
To my young daughter, I sing the songs my mother sang to me. Which is to say: to my young daughter,I sing an eclectic selection of breakup tunes of the 1960s. Now I knowyou’re not the only starfish in the sea / If I never hear your name again,it’s all the same to me…That doesn’t…
Translated from Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author The historyof the growth of heavenis the motion of every eyelashon everyborn and unborn human face.No kitties, notrees, no herdsof wild animalsare excluded or forgotten.The historyof the growth of heaven is the imageof all pastures,the image of all shades on greenpasturesin the blaze and dusk….
since I couldn’t say tomorrowI said Wednesday since I couldn’t say Cleveland I saidOhio since I couldn’t say hello I hung upsince I couldn’t say burger a waitress finishedmy sentence a green-striped mint dissolved on my tonguefrom peacock to dove since I couldn’t say my name I opened as if preparing for a throatculture since…
Someone else died again,and when I heard, I feltthe green oceanlike a suffocating quiltpulled over me. I had a fatheronce with a heroinneedle in his arm. So what am Icapable of? I’d rather flipa book open than attend a party,feel my numbedfingertips in the cold and neveragain hear my sister’s voiceecho, “Joel killed himselflast night.”…
“Nature’s Grand Hotel has its Season, like the others. As the guests one by one pack, pay, and depart, and the seats at the table-d’hote shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal…Why not stay on quietly here, like us, and be jolly?” —Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows Don’t sit too close, the smellof her…
A brick warehouse, a cold morning,and Newark in the distance. Bleakis how I take my coffee, insidea shipping container while a planecranks by. Thinking something about “the bloom of youth” somethingI’ve lost something a manwould feel right saying but which sitsunder my tongue, unwanted pill. I do take the bitter train throughNew Jersey but this…
Remember the night it snowedin a place we were told would never snowand like two shadows cast by a lampstanding in the presence of a Greaterwe walked the beach the sand’s grit limpidthe expanse of what I didn’t know endlesslyswallowing the floes the ocean has always beenimmutable and dumb has always carried onpast my limitations…
Laughing at the thought of lackof pleasure as a pleasure—monuments not yet objects,a waltz not for dancing but for labor— and having slogged through pollen,considerable weeds and fallenpower lines to be here, I have moreto say about this day than of the year. Blasphemy’s part of the Logos too,like wanting the light my way. Towersdisappear…
No products in the cart.