excuse me this chambray tie / this cummerbund, these plain chops, / these dull lips. I’ve no guilt for gild's sake.
For God's sake, / have a little consideration! Why wake him? / Another fisherman was sitting on a stone block, / a stone block glittering with mica.
Got to be starting
some thing. My father used to
minor birds with butcher twine.
Revise each one to be
Your dad died most of 2 weeks ago. I don't want you to care too much about it. I sure as hell don't...
In the early ’80s, I wrote Samuel Beckett a letter. I explained that I was trying to write, adding that he was probably often sought out by strangers,…
I repeat to you, ladies and gentlemen: the State of the Author is strong. And with the unlikely help of every last one of us...
Artist friend of mine works part-time at a store that sells
Red Rooster pills to any guy who thinks he needs
a “male sexual performance booster” or any gal who
wants a 60-tab bottle of that reliable blend of proven
You’ll say it was because your parents didn’t understand you—that’s why you left—but really it’s because they understood you too well…
Love, I’m a musky vermouth, palm of discount / stars, instruction manual for low-end vibrators / which is to say, my frequencies have slowed / down to the flutter of a junebug’s libido
I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.
That exalted moment when, out of nowhere, you are obliterated—completely, blissfully destroyed—by a voluptuous euphoria. A lightning flash of inspiration.…