BLCKDGRD
sleep at this closed hour many enemies
a line of faces borders the strangler's work
When They Shout It Is Usually Addressed to the Dead Body Who Owned This Body Before Us
I Sense a Heaviness in Your Light Play, a Wish to Stand Out, Admired, From the Throng
The History of Revolutions Is a History of the Orthodox Weeping Over Their Faltering Orthodoxies:
No, It’s True, No One Should Be Writing Poetry in Times Like These, Dear Reader, I Don’t Have to Tell You of All People Why
quarrelsomely carving away under the table at the dead meat
I built, of blocks, a town three hundred thousand strong, whose avenues were paved with a wine-colored rug and decorated by large leaves outlined inappropriately in orange, and on this leafage I'd often park my Tootsie Toy trucks, as if on pads of camouflage, waiting their deployment against catastrophes which included alien invasions, internal treachery, and world war, or: Born 101 Years Ago Today
It Hurts, This Wanting to Give a Dimension to Life When Life Is Precisely That Dimension, or: Born Ninety-Eight Years Ago Yesterday
It’s Like Being Left Out in the Rain, and Coming to Understand That You Were Always This Way: Modern, Wet, Abandoned, Though with That Special Intuition That Makes You Realize You Weren’t Meant to Be Somebody Else
There Were No More Dreamers Just Sleepers in Heavy Attitudes
Who Would Be Released From a Silver Skeleton?
When I Was Driving Once I Saw This Painted on a Bridge: "I Don't Want the World I Just Want Your Half"
Give Me a Name; I've Never Heard My Voice or Seen My Face
Thirty-Seven
The Failure to See God Is Not a Problem God Has a Problem With
At First, as You Lie in Bed in Your Motel Room or Mobile Home It Merely Disrupts Your Sleep, Your Nervous System. Later You Kill Your Dog and Wife
And if to withstand this nocturnal pollution of the tiny wanton stars with bent hook clauses of misprision I’m supposed to sing the melody of an unexpecting part. . .
Rest and Look at this Goddamned Wheelbarrow. Whatever It Is
Do You Want to Go Down to the Pits of Yourself All Alone?
Embers of Rain Tamp Down the Shitty Darkness That Issues From Nowhere
Every Day I Peruse the Box Scores for Hours. Sometimes I Wonder Why I Do It Since I Am Not Going to Take a Test on It and No One Is Going to Give Me Money
And Should Further Seasons Coagulate into Years, Like Spilled, Dried Paint, Why, Who's to Say We Weren't Provident?
This Is My Echo From Before, From What I Had Made for You Vocally, and From Before We Acceded to the Time Line Never Like Lace
Let Me In So I Can Abolish Your Description
With a Worsened Left Eye I Still Find Street Lamps Crooked