You stand still, the pom pom of a world. It’s revolver voices loom over the budding announcements, Like black morning coffee. It exclaims nothing of my true disability. The New York birth to the foreign parentage. Whispering voices: “are you transparent?” No, I was always a Swiss wrapped doll. Loomed up in my own white
On this windy April afternoon cherries in full bloom and hemlock bowing and bamboo bending as the zen proverb tells us we should learn to do; on this afternoon I lie on the couch watching clouds pass and think, first, of that almost other world the wind comes from, cold circle of the pole, waves
from the bank where we sit, rain on our knees, its a chalked smudge, but I see it clear. Like a spotlight focused on me. Like an eye, coy. It winks out behind the partner dance of teams, bodies threading, near collision disappears into the tangle of whipping hair and flashing thighs that jostles and
Walking through the front door, drunk, and the piano waltzes in the dark towards me and back. As today, when she played Monk, her forearms quivering over the last chord, the E way above the root F, clear, repeated. We had wine downtown. Stepping out, the bagpiper on the corner played Amazing Grace. How sweet
This poem is about a rhyme. It was written by a small white boy at school, at lunchtime. No. It is about a juniper tree that breaks its branches against a wind blasted from the blind bomb of Hiroshima. A Japanese woman wrote it. Or was it your mother who wrote this poem where all
_ “It is in dying that we are born” – St. Francis of Assisi How do you help your brother die? I asked the hills along my drive to see him. What do you say? What do you do? Wind rattled the windows, shook the whole car; dry leaves whirled up and up; forest vistas
On my last evening with Dominique, we sat at one of the outside tables at Vidanges while les voyou on Vespas wailed through the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honere and spoke again about changing my life: start doing something meaningful — perhaps taking tennis seriously or less pills, falling in love again or for the right reasons.
We should have known. Without a hint the moon darkens on time and I get bored about three or four A.M. You’re off with friends or working in the basement of the house. So I go out to stroll down one of these streets this late at night. So few souls left in the place–I
Twice a month, our mothers went to the Kontiki Palace. Told us tales that made us want to be old enough to date- gussied up in rhinestone strap dresses, shoes dyed to match, going with the greased-back-hair guys dressed in shark skin suits that looked blue-gray pizzazzed with a sometimes glint of our favorite color,
Waiting amid rows and rows of cars thick as a beehive waiting for the shuttle that will carry me to the plane that will carry me to the next place I must be waiting in this catacomb of drones each car the armor that carries the essence of the hive, the drone alone the key
