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Although radiation and chemo rendered him a wraith...
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He fished a tissue from a hidden pocket and dabbed his forehead, then called the cops.
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“The beginning was good. That’s what he likes. The moment when you’re driving in the open air and your hair is flying and your skirt is whipping up around your knees, and he’s smoking, of all things, and happy and looking at you."
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On his knees
he divinates diverging lines
with belly laughs he levitates
the rebel spheres into geodes .
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Whenever you act as if you're one of themit makes perfectly sad sense tome; you are one of them; we're supposed to believe there areno shadows in that particular choice? When you areone of them, they say youfall asleep with a peaceful droopinglip to your smile. When…
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First have a good window seat
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Except with the language I was born to./
Occasionally, with painters and collagists-//
dead now, typically- who can’t voice/
opposition to my misappropriations.
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"They called him a syllannibal: a person who eats his own words. The only words he ever ate, however, were the ones he had written."
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and we spun you, / spun you!
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They are always there. Stoic and steady.
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So I told her
think of it this way:
you’re my unlived life.
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After we have sex I slip cash into your purse, just a few bucks, without you knowing. You're not a whore, but I'd like to buy you lunch sometime without having to be there.
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Marcel Proust ran about the grounds chasing an itinerant tennis ball and kissing the guests, his huge testicles sweeping the lawn.
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He tells people about the whores, but what he really recalls is when someone from a room above dropped a rug on his patio.
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In May of 1982, my daughter and I planned a trip…
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His grandmother's recipe called for the pasta dough to be beaten with a bone--and not just any bone either. It had to be a human femur. This was his first hurdle. Where would he get such a thing at this hour in this part of town? Or, for that matter, at any…
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What did they even invent
clothing for? I asked.
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None of this is real, he says, and the path slopes down to a house that is possibly haunted. One always looks in such windows, one cannot not look at the predictable detritus of another's failure, a queer satisfaction, a fairy's dust. But no, not real, none of it. And…
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You aren’t easy to explain, you Americans.
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every timeyou openyour mouthan angel fallsinto a vat of whiskyshut ityou're fucking up heaven2013 - Rene
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I thought of you todayand what you put me throughthe time you saidwe couldn't rest.
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strumming on the pipe/blowing on the lute's body/drumming on the horn.
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'love is when the body goes away.'
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Men and their inevitable disappointments—sure, why not?
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Children should not be made to do things unless they want it.
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Marge came home with a Doors CD.
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But God could tell that Adam was still not/
right with His world, alone as he was. Alone/
is fine for a Maker of Worlds but facsimiles/
are so much less than the Original.
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the neighborhood glistens, silver,/
in an otherwise sad November/
light
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Gladstone called him a ‘goddam nihilist’--
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I heard an old Stevie Ray Vaughn tune this morning. It triggered a flash back. It’s funny how just a few notes of a song can slam me right into a memory. A total and complete immersion. Sights. Sounds. Smells. The people. The place. The weather. Wha
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