What once was apprehended in passion survives as opinion.
—“Hammer” by Frank Bidart
Eager for learning, hopeful for a chance
to make something of himself again
in school, Richard shook my hand
and sat beside my desk in the office
the prison provided
I paint ghosts, Basquiat told at least one collector who remembered it after. The client thought he was smart, driven, creative, and so what if he was moody. To Repel Ghosts, the artist scribbled once in oil stick, and young
Mr. Smink, each time we met, told us the history of the high school band, which boys had fainted in Memorial Day parades, which girls had soloed to applause during end-of-the-school-year concerts. Once, after we smeared another try at “Camptown Races”
She dreams of bears. Her parents’ snores become growls. The bears’ nutty, grassy scent hangs heavy in the night air. Their big, furry bodies warm her cot in the kitchen.
That night we are jumping on the twin beds in our room. Everything is flowers in our room, climbing up the wallpaper, creeping over our bedspreads. We hear our mother call us to come and say goodbye to our father. My parents’ room is dim, and my
The backyard oak, branches that ladder to the clouds. A cereal aisle’s bright colors, your mother—for a moment—lost, and you forget how to breathe. The blind man across the alley who knows your name. A red-haired boy who mocks your words. The
Thrusting one creased pant leg in front of the other,
canter-leaving ankles, knees, thighs, my leather shoes
clacking slate as I amble toward and away,
in one motion. Steel, sheets of glass, ruddy-tinted,
the high-ceilinged
A struck moose slumps in the grass.
A cop prepares to shoot it.
Thick hairy men are quarreling
over the rack. We pass by
this tableau with a shudder.
Although this accident occurred
while we were eating breakfast
1. The hardback book, The Old Man and the Boy, by Robert Ruark – red and white cover, set on an end table by the rocker in the front room, next to a brass lamp with a parchment lampshade imprinted with maple leaves.
2. The rocker, the Boston rocker,
1. When you are a small child tell everyone in your family that you absolutely must have a pair of tap shoes, because the magical clicking sound you heard when you watched Singin’ in the Rain filled you with a great passion that you don’t
Mother’s stone quiet as she smooths and straightens and tugs at the lace tablecloth. Her lips tighten as she sets, then resets, the cutlery. First she does x, then pauses. Then she undoes x. Then she tries y and undoes
“Here there is no why.” If This is a Man, Primo Levi
Moonlit quarry. Cratered shaped sky.
How long has it been since cried? Perception’s fool.
Nose wipes on stripped shirt sleeve.
“Onwards to life,” ruminate, “a
It’s a rainy morning with a sweet odor of petrol –
like a goblet with wet screw bolts and linden pollen in it.
We have nowhere to hurry: no one is waiting for mankind.
Good and evil dissolve in each other, like a knife in acid,
At the corner of a small path as narrow as a porch
A graveyard of crying fireflies spread silently
At the end of a long tunnel where summer is leaving
An umbrella is thrown away at a deserted station
An origami crane in a treasure
Let this rhetorical examination of a woefully overlooked literary master, working with the most critical of materials, begin with a simple statement: The first novel in The Mod Squad series, based on the popular television show, is titled The Greek
Soldiers with machine guns stand guard outside the Basilica,
check visitors’ bags for weapons. Pilgrims and tourists arch
necks back to gaze upon majestic ornate ceilings inlayed
with gold. Forty fluted marble columns gesture towards
On floor six the elevator doors opened and I saw that a man was already inside. I looked around for signs saying two was too many, but he moved to the side so I figured it was fine. I tucked myself into the opposite side and we rode down together like
The heart only loves once and it only longs for one alone. When that is gone all that follows is epitaph, love made from memory of love, love made from what was good about love, love restrained at the edge of that limitless fall. No one looks into
It starts when his mother tells him he’d be happy living there. That she’s tired of making the same thing for dinner every night.
It continues how he wakes up, stringy strands of pasta curled up around his chest, his legs, and elsewhere. He likes