The green sqaure, crisp, run overwith squeaking tennis flats, sunshinewhites: a body in back-arc, perfect line of tautmuscle that curves in, like lips tersed orbow of a ship, and flicks back -- slam and hit. The dropping hurricane sky. Face above the green-gray chiffron, floral bag; lost a lotof weight quickly. Sprawling orangechurch stained glass… Continue reading poem: wedding in florida
Tag: poem
poem: wednesday
the coffee makes sputtering demon noises its facepressed close to filter, I pull back too soonthe glass sloshes. faint thrum press-press in lower-lands, even the parking-lot thinflorescenant light magnetically attached abovemy desk willgive out. weak water taste, sleep mossing inat the edges. do you know how badthe torment gets, the leaf turning over-over-overin heated gas:… Continue reading poem: wednesday
poem: unrendered exterior (the wall)
The character is at least partly called misery and likes, licks,small faces of others: my coworker with the screwed-up eyes announcedby flip-flap of shoes, proudly incompetant; the cloistured-down sufferer --inclined to madness, as am I, as am I -- the other, walking around, headphones drippingdown jeans-leg, the flat pink goverment building: he lost a lot… Continue reading poem: unrendered exterior (the wall)
poem: comet
this desert is worse than the others: yelow harlot, or during the brightest points of the afternoon a reminder of the infinite she last felt at twenty-two, or like a mousecarcass and the dwelling people with theirvulture eyes: here is the truth of out-here America, puremoral rot. and yet I would like to take out… Continue reading poem: comet
poem: end of year
wet sludge, and his face, and fingers -- are damp I am not the one who beats all the heads in, I am not the dregs -- stretchedout, across all my life -- it cannot always come back to this. skinis sloughing off, collects under his nails, gathers at the wrists andcongests into lines at… Continue reading poem: end of year
poem: late july
a deep buffering thing, rolling in --- I have mylegs clefted tight, driving, I describethe land as the armpit of the earth flopped intothe arm of the earth, freckled and brown againstflat blue sky: porcelain tile squeezed behindhills, chipping fresco. where are the Experiences where are the Summer Experiences; I reread books I first read… Continue reading poem: late july
poem: In the dark the mind runs on like a devouring machine, the only thing awake in the universe.
on the novel White Noise how effective is fear of death as a theme, if I,two-year Catholic, have previously feared Oblivion but neverdeath: or are these the same? material death, body in shreds: my wish is tree planted in rib-cage, for thismy surviving family members must fight the funeral establishment, sayno chemicals dousing up my… Continue reading poem: In the dark the mind runs on like a devouring machine, the only thing awake in the universe.
poem: surname
really, the world is a small thing -- I was an I seven years ago, now I am also an I: rutted littlehalf-done dreams, the newest iteration blastedthrough head, now I have someoneto tell about it. growing younger -- I swear I keep wanting oblivion: blasted down bytoo big force, fertility or death. taking an… Continue reading poem: surname
poem: conclusion
old man Rodya, or at least the bent-over version Sonya retrievesfrom the railway station, neck shortened into fur coat, handsopen secrets or frost-lite spiderbites splayed overher traveling coat, as he steadies himself against her, says wellwhat is there to say. train sneaks in, awning over them, dawningof little smile: she says, well, hopefully a great… Continue reading poem: conclusion
poem: incredible retelling of an otherwise normal saturday
Alyssa adjusts her jacket; tweed, tiehole, fresh out of normal bad-childhood nowhere, ready to differentiate between graduate programs whichoffer training -- paid for -- and those which, essentially making you an employee of the university -- stipend you, more or less, from here throughend of time, hoisted around the wet trees and the green-gray-bluewhich knocks… Continue reading poem: incredible retelling of an otherwise normal saturday
the last pavilion 