After pulling a score from the dumpster behind Krogers I stroll through sliding doors with egg-caked hands. The greeter greets me as I pass. I scan the aisles like a surgeon studying the mint
I want my web to hold. I want to repair what I have made. I was not given the gold hive. In me seethes the silk of invisible worlds. Spinning my body inside of hairline emptiness, I project
In the evenings, we watched Jeopardy. Wore surgical masks once she got sick. Before that my mother sent me to the store for cigarettes all the time. Pack of Salem Lights.
I’d come into the room & try to write a different ending on those anonymous walls. There was less time all the time until time changed. You know what I mean.
We had to present proof for everything: My mother was born August 31, 1954. On that day inside the womb of a minute she burst from another woman’s life,
There is no title. There is no title. The body is content. The body is window. The body is container, curtain, chair, grid. Do you see? Bones & shoulders, a spine
There’s this cathedral in my head I keep making from cricket song and dying but rogue-in-spirit, still, bamboo. Not making. I keep imagining it, as if that were the same
Of birdsongs, I know only three for certain: cardinal, blue jay, raven, though perhaps the last two don’t count—not as song. More call than song. More cry, by which I mean
The first poem in Leonard Cohen’s posthumous book The Flame made me laugh. Not because the lyrics are especially funny (although there are touches of Cohen’s characteristic wry humor), and not because the poem is foolish (it’s quite good), but because it is practically a medley of every single theme and obsession Cohen took up over his sixty-year career. Holiness and pussies are just a start. One almost senses him (knowingly, always knowingly) ticking off boxes. Angels and devils: check. Art, sartorial elegance, and slaves: check, check, check. Messianism: check:
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