I pressed my face to the car window to see Jackson’s hometown, the place we’d spent all our money moving to after graduation, the place we would be stuck in. It was June, the month of green. Willows everywhere wept over houses and cars and one little girl riding her bicycle. . . .Read more
Walk into my room and come to find one of my Jordan Air Max 360s floating about five foot off the ground. Soon as I see it, my heart kinda go pie-yow! and my neck get hot. Then I smile at my foolish, foolish dumb-ass ass, and I say to myself my brother Ricky had done strung it up from the ceiling. . . .Read more
The American Wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art has an airy, skylit atrium, the recently remodeled Engelhard Sculpture Court, a place overflowing with marble and curious marvels. In one corner, the Vanderbilts’ humongous hearth. Over there, glowing Tiffany windows. Catty-corner is an annexed Frank Lloyd Wright living room, transplanted entire from Minnesota. . . .Read more
beloved braincase, body’s bleeding heart
dear ribs thick with implied meat, disused central
railroad, reverse spec house unplumbed
to propitious frame
dear double-strung forearm, dear violin bow,
dear pachyderm-eared pelvis, . . .
But sometimes it’s warm enough for the neighbor
to stand in the field
and brush out her horse’s tail. She knows the sun
slips through it.
The horse is two-toned, losing a winter coat, . . .
A “ghost ship” carrying hundreds of Syrian refugees including pregnant women and children has been towed safely to Italy after being abandoned by its crew.
—The Independent, Wednesday, 22 April 2015
What is your name?
Yes, . . .
You see, sooner or later, everything falters
into radiance. The smallest components of our pent-up
contingencies ignite. Energy shimmers in every cell.
This afternoon, for example, from the balcony
of my condo, in which I have lived exactly
three years, . . .
Someone’s sister in Europe writing her
adultery poems late night, half bottle
of wine pretty much required.
And they’re good, they really are—
The things one hears in an elevator.
Perfect strangers. . . .
Enters in the heroic mode, feathered
And helmeted, muscle-bound
For glory, smelling of scorch. Raise
That sword a little higher
If you can lift it and buckle your straps
Tight. Insert fanfare. . . .
If it had been night, the neighbors wouldn’t have stared at Ilsa in the back of the squad car. In darkness, the blue and red lights overhead might strobe her mother and Harold into sight, but Ilsa would have remained invisible. The fight was between those two anyway; . . .Read more