Please re-read your taser’s manual, since I am sure you did not intend for me to be nearly paralyzed. While it is an honor for me to have licked the sole of your boot, I regret my teeth were unable to remove the gum from your left heel. I know my current lack of response … Continue reading
Wheelhouse was never part of my father’s lexicon though I do remember him using the synonym bailiwick; I think he liked the click at the end, the slight touch of baritone drama in Cracking down on guys like that (referring to a local wife beater) would definitely be part of my bailiwick. He said it … Continue reading
Everything was as dirty as a carwash bathroom and pop-tops cut the light littering the sides of Route 1, in those days still a long path of concrete sections we kathunked along in our Galaxie 500, my father driving, alive, the sweat- -stain halo burned into the upholstery above his curly head. I had no … Continue reading
That old groundhog of war within us came out of its silos and bunkers to look around. And all who saw it lifted it up– and what had crawled out of us would not crawl back in. Continue reading
on Nunscape, by Leonora Carrington Feathered devildactyl mothers its big blue egg. Give me a big blue omelet, breakfast full of food coloring, the kind kids like that mortifies the mother tongue. A pteratopped column plants one painted corner while the sea scene flirts with fluttering off on the gale-grey jubilant swell, like a washed … Continue reading
She never knew the Metro in July, the cold composted air coursing down the cars, the animal stench blent coarsely with perfume, the beautiful eyes like light on light in faces fixed with time’s tattoos. She looked in luxury; her skin shone Sicilian sun still at a century’s length, undulled at death by days’ decline … Continue reading
If you look at poems of those initially written in cuneiform, you will only find poems of the extremely important. If you’re not divine or a king (hell, might as well be both), then you probably didn’t receive an honorable mention. And I don’t think it was because the concept of the individual wasn’t yet … Continue reading
Fishing in Spring, the Pont De Clichy (Asnières) Vincent Van Gogh Spring, 1887 We’ve not come to fish, though we may buy some—perch, bullhead—caught among the reeds and lilies where the water is still, the grasses near the bank. Fishermen here fish for themselves, but most would be glad to sell. From their wide, green … Continue reading
I forget my indiscretions and take comfort in pine cones. I forget my spelling, my modicum of poor French, my car keys. Some days I forget my name. I forget the road and the destination, The Way and the Detour, silver bells and the lost clappers, the broken grates, the run-over shoes, the colors of … Continue reading
Hiding in your amoured shell masked in that red smile which fires even a lame bull you puff kisses that vapourise before they reach me my songs drown in the buzzes of the million bees that trail you and gloss you with their honey tongues you lounge on your hill of ice gauging your worth … Continue reading
Coe Review 