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The field opens up to us like something born.

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The Next Stanley Kubrick

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I have, for example, watched Stanley Kubrick's "The Shining" 117 times.

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When the snow reached the windowsills I was no longer a virgin.

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When my husband died, I was in bed with his brother. Ricky and I had been married six years, three months and two days when his little brother, Ben, and I gave in to the lust that just would not go away in spite of our prayers and tears.


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Alone he waited in dimness, studied smooth wooden walls and traced their polished patterns.

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Although decades have passed since I last tasted lysergic acid with diethylamide flavoring, I cannot fail to remember the tasting.


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and there is no climbing up/ to any height, and the sun/ is cloaked by cloud,

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Hers is the kind of crazy that can't be masked. She's worn it on her sleeves since tenth grade.

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I have bathed in patchouli oil and my heavy hair is lustrous from brushing. I am wearing my gold ankle bracelets with the ruby charms that my love gave me when we had been married one year. My robe is fuchsia silk and under it I wear black satin…

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Should I have shooed the cats from my bed? Shaken awake the silky tangle of feline true love curled at my feet? Shut their bedroom door against them? Perhaps, maybe, I don’t know.

Beatnik Blonde

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everything plus zero stays the same

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“Your sister is a slut,” said Ma to me over supper.

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I hit the pole near Whited Avenue a year to the day.


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Accept that your husband's heart always belonged to his first love. You should've noticed sooner because she works in your building and won't look you in the eye. She takes the stairs because you ride the elevator.

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I told mamma I was leavin’ you –/ you and your hard drinkin’, devil/ writin’ ways,

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your mania for sentences / has dried up your heart


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"You are not a vintage radio. Not even close."

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There's no surcease from heat, no "cool of the evening," like the songs say about summer in the South. Those songwriters sat under fans in the Brill Building in downtown Manhattan.


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They lie down in the prairie grass and clutch each other, imagine dying under fat clouds.

How Dinner With John Updike Ruined My Teaching Career

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Christmas Eve, 1989, I had dinner with John Updike.