I’m tired of faces that I don’t knowand now I think that death is starting.Death starts like a dream,full of objects and my sister’s laughter.We are young and we are walkingand picking wild blueberries.all the way to Damariscotta.Oh Susan, she cried.you’ve stained your new waist.Sweet taste –my mouth so fulland the sweet blue running outall…
each night we leave some cold potatoesand a bowl of milk on the windowsill.Usually they inhabit heaven where,by the way, no tears are allowed.They push the moon around likea boiled yam.The Milky Way is their henwith her many children.When it is night the cows lie downbut the moon, that big bull,stands up.However, there is a…
They are old men who have seen too much,their mouths are full of dirty clothes,the tongues poverty, tears like puss.The surf pushes their cries back.Listen.They are bewitched.They are writing down their lifeon the wings of an elfwho then dissolves.They are writing down their lifeon a century fallen to ruin.They are writing down their lifeon the…
proper in the supermarket,list in hand so she won’t suddenly fly,buying her Duz and Chuck Wagon dog food,meanwhile ascending from earth,letting her stomach fill up with helium,letting her arms go loose as kite tails,getting ready to meet her lovera mile down Apple Crest Roadin the Congregational Church parking lot.Two seemingly respectable womencome up to an…
Perhaps the stars are little paper cutupsmade by some giant scissors,I do not know.Perhaps the moon is a frozen tear,I do not know.Perhaps God is only a deep voiceheard by the deaf,I do not know.Perhaps I am no one.True, I have a bodyand I cannot escape from it.I would like to fly out of my…
‘At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftoversto my daughters and their daughters’ – AnonymousBetter,despite the worms talking tothe mare’s hoof in the field;better,despite the season of young girlsdropping their blood;better somehowto drop myself quicklyinto an old room.Better (someone said)not to be bornand far betternot to be born twiceat thirteenwhere the boardinghouse,each year…
Ask my imaginary brother, that waif,that childhood best friend who comes to playdress-up and stick-up and jacks and Pick-Up-Sticks,bike downtown, stick out tongues at the Catholics.Or form a Piss Club where we all goin the bushes and peek at each other’s sex.Pop-gunning the street lights like crows.Not knowing what to do with funny Kotexso wearing…
Also, I am tired of all the dead.They refuse to listen,so leave them alone.Take your foot out of the graveyard,they are busy being dead.Everyone was always to blame:the last empty fifth of booze,the rusty nails and chicken feathersthat stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,the worms that lived under the cat’s earand the thin-lipped…
