I wake up angry with Raymond Carver(whom I love, who is long dead and cannot suffer my anger,cannot even pour me gin or offer cigarettes),for bestowing literary domain on Tess Gallagher.Tess had nothing to do with it.She showed up late to his curly, black hair and meticulous prose. It was Maryann, who traded her sixteen […]
I Wake Up Angry with Raymond Carver: For Maryann Burk Carver Read More »
When the summer breeze blows warm across my face, I will come to you through the slanting light and watch you paint the picture you said you always would. We’ll capture the moment in a silent instant and hold it for as long as memory serves, untouched by heartbreak, with nothing left to hide, in
The carnival is sick freedom, something less, passing through town, barking forbidden desires, promising an untranslatable ticket to the show. Our parents encouraged this. They wanted us to rub up against something different, strange and welcome, but only for an instant, in the blink of an eye. “Love but don’t touch,” they said, “and don’t admit
I’m smoking, The burning trail choking Deep lungs groping For the nicotine fix It poisons my lips And keeps callers at a distance. My most faithful lover Your smell stays on my lips Long after our last kiss No matter how hard I try keep telling you goodbye You keep coming back And I keep
I am collecting pieces of myself Scattered over years, miles, and memories. Shards of self abandoned and forgotten In the name of growing up. I am collecting pieces of myself. Patching together the things once beloved and left to rust On the shelf of my youth. I am collecting pieces of myself; Calling home parts
His eyes are jelly holes The sheep his wool is fire Toppling up the slope Toward the wire. No Says the sheep’s master. He can only follow her. The sheep goes faster. In the wire they all rolled, Held, holding, all defiled. The poor girl, she foaled. My cradle. Oh my child.
Stray Fire – Vietnam, 1968 Read More »