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I could put on some music, but it just pushes me further away from you, so it seems. It takes me out far beyond the safety breakers and then reintroduces me to my own splashing two-fisted fear of swimming. You can swim through …
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Steve Kramer was a brilliant young artist on the scene in New York in the 70s when I was starting out as a writer. He built little electronic dioramas displaying stuffed rats in various bizarre settings. Flip the switch and they would get fried in a little rat-sized…
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If something hurts enough/
you never forget it. Like the//
toothache when you first learned
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I knew my cat was capable of telepathy when I began to have isolated, random, non-cause-related thoughts about food and feelings, little signals, and I realized that the signs — images of tangerines, tuna, bones; the idea of choice; slate, names; the feeling of…
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They think Van Gogh heard music when he looked at his starry nights. Working at a Bingo parlor, you get to believing in a one-in-a-million shot just as much as you doubt the rarity of a sure thing.
I only worked part time at the bingo parlor because I ne
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No bustling inside
No extruded amber
Wings onyx straight jackets
A low hum of displeasure.
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Over dinner last evening she said things have to change because she can never be happy with our lives being so concentric and I knew she meant that while we share the common core of marriage, she felt she was a small circle and I was a larger one, enveloping her,…
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My first girlfriend had blue Christmas lights strung on trees in front of her stone house. My family had all gone to bed. When midnight came, it was snowing.
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The pristine Hudson's/waters dance in the dark of/the East River's rinse.
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Your laugh used to startle the nurses.
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Obesity in America is now considered a felony, thanks to Michelle Obama's biceps and weight obsession. They've sent me to couch potato prison where I'm doing hard time in a dark corner of an unfinished basement filled with cobwebs that…
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I can barely pick out the numbers on the houses
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Captain Nemo never died./
He cruises all the seven seas/
below the waves in Nautilus 2,
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We are prisoners of anticipation.
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the neighborhood glistens, silver,/
in an otherwise sad November/
light
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Looking back now, examining from a distance the sequence of events I failed to connect as anything beyond queer happenstance...
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How many shadows in your soul? Close your eyes, my love, let me / make you blind as the wings of a drenched, drowned bee.
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even from the moon our planet’s truth has not been seen.
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150596
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THIS is what happened — the dead went into remission. Dated may 10 2010. Or it could have been some other day. They were going to be restored later. That's what we were being told. The dead were being given stones to mark their remission. They were getting…
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I had a meeting with the editor of a well-known magazine. She said, “I think your paradigm got stuck up your monomyth.” “Oh dear. Is that bad?” “Bad? You want to be a writer, don't you?” “Well, I did. I'm not so sure now.…
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It's 6:45 a.m. A gritty, mundane sort of magic pervades the air at "Valentine’s" in the Hamilton Hotel.
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The heart is a toothed hole that cannot be filled.
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my love for you/ is like the falling snow
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it's all a bit like the quiet steam
drifting to nowhere off my microwaved
hot coffee in the sunflower mug
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His house incubates memories. As he sleeps, they hatch.His house is neither here nor there. It occupies a space between watchfulness and insomnia. Grey birds nest on its roof.His house is a refuge from everything except himself. The floor, walls, roof are fat with him.…
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A break from bleak world history and events...
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I go down to pick up R and get a cartridge of black ink for the printer. It's an extremely pleasant summer day — early afternoon — and the air is exemplary: clear and sweet. So far so good. But as soon as I park and go to a nearby cash machine the fun begins.…
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It's not that there's nothing new, it's all new. That blue color is not the one you remember, but the one you are experiencing, and at the same time, you bring everything you are, crushing into dust, with you. Green…
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Every night famous authors read not only to us, but to a duck. A wild female who emerged from the lake just as we were gathering, settled her gray-brown feathers down not three feet from the podium, tucked her head inside her wing, and remained there. If the duck liked…
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