Bury the past bravely, retaining
Only those messages that are least decipherable
And therefore most desirable
To be sung by the bright-eyed few remaining
Voices of our frankly foolish choir.
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Can’t swim; uses credit cards and pills to combat
Won’t admit his dread of boredom, chief impulse behindnumerous marital infidelities;Looks fat in jeans, mouths clichés with confidence,breaks mother’s plates in fights;Buys when the market is too high, and panics duringthe inevitable descent;Still, Pop can always tell the subtle differencebetween Pepsi and Coke,Has defined the darkness of red at dawn, memorizedthe splash of poppies alongDeserted…
It’s my birtday I’ve got an empty
lazy in the hammock and maybego for a cool swim on a hot daywith the trombone in Sinatra’s‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’in my head and then to break forlunch a corned-beef sandwich and Pepsiwith plenty of ice cubes unlike Francewhere they put one measly ice cubein your expensive Coke and whenyou ask for more…
The fear of perjuring herself turned into a tacit
And the luck to elude her implacable pursuers.God was everywhere like a faceless guard in a gallery.Death was last seen in the auction room, looking worried.She hadn’t seen him leave. She narrowly avoided himWalking past the hard hats eating lunch. Which one was he?She felt like one of those women you sometimes seeCrying in a…
The sky was a midnight blue
a birdcage and no moonbut the breeze was whistlingand the sound of a caron Valentine Place wasthe rush of a waterfallon the phone in New York Cityand that’s when the museturned up with curly brown locksshe was a poet, too, and wantedme to give her an assignmentshe was willing to tradefifteen minutes of inspirationin return…
I could stare for hours
out of her bath, breastsbare, towel around her waist,before I knew she was youin that one-bedroom inthe Village sunny and coldthat Friday we woke upslowly & our breakfast tablearranged itself intoa still life with irisesin a vase and a peeled orange,espresso cups and saucersand The Necessary Angel byWallace Stevens, a little violetpaperback opened to page…
We have too much exhibitionism
in poetry we have plenty of bassand not enough treble, more amberbeer than the frat boys can drink butless red wine than meets the lipin this beaker of the best Bordeaux,too much thesis, too little antithesisand way too much New York Timesin poetry we’ve had too much isolationismand too few foreign entanglementswe need more Baudelaire…