Poetry
Poetry
Lovers
Who is this person? The one in my mind, Awake or asleep, So gentle, so warm, The one who touches me Completely, For the first time. The mind falls silent, Bowing to heart’s Whispered reply.
Blamed
Your voice is too friendly,Your smile too inviting,Your laugh too welcoming.Don’t speak.You’re giving these people the wrong idea.Be silent. White powder spread across the table,glass bottles scattered on the floor;the loud men filling the roomgrow more menacing with each snort of cocaine.Such peace for me in his chaotic lifewhen he doesn’t notice me.He reminds me,“Lock
Cleveland
White antlers of the night exacerbate my soul. There were gerbils at angles unheard of, perpendicular to themselves. These gerbils: my little sister in her prom dress more expensive than mine. This was in Cleveland. And so on. And so on. This is the kind of thing they mostly print these days, desperate attempts to
The Stare of the Dying (for Richard and Sophie)
The dying stare beyond you into some other world when you look into their eyes. They gaze intently beyond your care, your grief, beyond your dream. Tonight, you stare up toward where my friend sang his last song, silenced as he was. He’d been gone a day, and where you look now, a bird sang,
Act
Late summer had toasted the grass and weeds, But in the field I found a dandelion ghost, A perfectly spherical puffball of a hundred seeds. I pinched it off and huffed and watched the seeds coast On the random eddies, out, out from my breath Over the exhausted field, like paratroops let from a plane
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Novels and Collected Works
Lovers
Who is this person? The one in my mind, Awake or asleep, So gentle, so warm, The one who touches me Completely, For the first time. The mind falls silent, Bowing to heart’s Whispered reply.
Blamed
Your voice is too friendly,Your smile too inviting,Your laugh too welcoming.Don’t speak.You’re giving these people the wrong idea.Be silent. White powder spread across the table,glass bottles scattered on the floor;the loud men filling the roomgrow more menacing with each snort of cocaine.Such peace for me in his chaotic lifewhen he doesn’t notice me.He reminds me,“Lock
Cleveland
White antlers of the night exacerbate my soul. There were gerbils at angles unheard of, perpendicular to themselves. These gerbils: my little sister in her prom dress more expensive than mine. This was in Cleveland. And so on. And so on. This is the kind of thing they mostly print these days, desperate attempts to
The Stare of the Dying (for Richard and Sophie)
The dying stare beyond you into some other world when you look into their eyes. They gaze intently beyond your care, your grief, beyond your dream. Tonight, you stare up toward where my friend sang his last song, silenced as he was. He’d been gone a day, and where you look now, a bird sang,
Act
Late summer had toasted the grass and weeds, But in the field I found a dandelion ghost, A perfectly spherical puffball of a hundred seeds. I pinched it off and huffed and watched the seeds coast On the random eddies, out, out from my breath Over the exhausted field, like paratroops let from a plane