Not five minutes after we embarked on the inland path, our eyes watchful for rattlesnakes amid yellow cactus-flowers, the vampires invaded. We wondered about malaria, remembered the repellant lying on the floorboard. Brown swarms revealed our bodies as simple prey, frantic slaps and our palm lines swirled in the red relief of our own blood. […]
the matchstick girl is of no use in a time like this, when it is such a transient flame she carries in those mitten-wrapped hands, shivering. she shakes upon striking, and it’s not helpful to the cause. no, a fire for this task must cement in her hand, holding more steady than that which will
the matchstick girl Read More »
Here’s what I’m thinking now at the end of the world: If knowledge is power, and power corrupts, then why did I bother reading you, Cicero? Besides, the tortoise will get us all hare or no hair. Does it matter that I don’t love you? Would it matter if I did? There’s a poetry reading
I’m pheening for words Wringing shaking hands Touching tapping fingers to glands Wondering if I’m getting sick Needing the fix Worse than nicotine Worse than anything I’ve ever dreamed I am an addict Addicted to poetry Seriously It’s better at disseminating pain Than a couple of oxy’s Poetry gets deep Excises emotional puss
People said you didn’t exist in America, just to make me mad. In Florida, the grass is made of cement. Everything is exactly forty minutes from everything else. Looks like it’s about to rain. You introduced me to things I’ve never tasted, very late at night. We paid money to get close to death. I
New England holds its antique charms for such a one as me. The woods, the waves, the poets’ graves call pilgrims seasonally. The village green in Amherst dreams of Dickinson and Frost. The shades of these speak poetry in rhymes sublime and soft. But double Concords, Salems, too, plus devious round-abouts conspire to witch my
Passage to Massachusetts Read More »