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“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” - Emily Dickinson
“In a certain light,” Miranda said, “you can see anything at all.”
-thomas mcguane, from Ninety-two in the Shade
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“My Life At Home During Banking Hours” - David Berman
For a solid month I tried
to think of something new to say about rivers
I called the newspaper to find out
how many horses were left on earth,
and numbly watched mosquitoes swarm
over a pile of high-heeled shoes
while my colleagues hunted in the corners.
At least I was not in the line of work
that had me spending most of my day
avoiding God. My desk held painfully
complicated surfaces filled with shadow cassettes,
black bear theory and drinking water.
There was the sadness in a name like Jesse Winchester
and the wind howling
on the answering machine when I returned home
from daydreaming in a margarita shop.
All the blessings and counter-blessings
that move my mind like FM waves
from a butter churn, and granted me the sight
of parallel collies standing on a hilltop
And the rain falling on the United States
while it wonders
‘What is the United States?’
I used to sing a song that went
‘No more Springs, no more Summers, no more Falls’
I believed I was nearing the morning when
nettles would pour from the shower head.
When I would be ripped out of the world for re-casting
the blues and plastic.
I believed that I would finally break
where I had been bent,
that I would lose the game inside the game
But that has not happened,
And now I don’t expect it ever will.
Blue Yodel of the Desperado by Frank Stanford
After Pier Paolo Pasolini
I went to New York to leave you
Flowers of blood and light
In the Picture Shows I dreamed
Of your birthmark in the shape of a pistol
There you were alone and asleep
In your bed like a lake
And your Father watched over you
And his land
As always you slept naked
With the window wide open
The down on the small of your back
Was like dust on the guitar
Holding up the pane
I believe you left strawberries
And a glass of water
Untouched on the desk
There were the ashes hidden in your drawers
And your fingers smelled like backwater
Did your Mother know
That you slept with a sachet of poison
In your scapula
You cast your shadow like dice
How many of the wealthy short-haired women
Wishing you woe
Did you visit by the dark of the moon
When they paid you a call did you allow them
To hold your hand
I wanted to ride down to where I come from
On an appaloosa
And take you away for good
I wanted to tie your hands with my belt
And watch you stare at the campfire
In the mountains not saying a word
So it was in this dream
I gave you things to eat
So you would speak to me
I watched you grow silent and hungry
Like the middle of the night
When your leg was in pain
I saw the black seam of your stocking
Running down the side of the mountain like a creek
I put the whiskey down and listened
The first time you wept like a wooden boat
Was just launched
The sounds of the night
A dance you thought
You never wanted to attend
You were there and sullen enough to take the corsage
Without ever looking at it
As if waiting for me to do something with the pin
All that you dreamed
I would do to you I did
At dawn you said you were thirsty
Even the darkest night must give in
When you spoke
It was hard for me to say a word
I couldn’t open my mouth
It was like being underwater
A bird came from nowhere
And lited on your wrist
In the dream it drank from your palm
You stroked its throat and I could have sworn
Your finger was on the trigger
The wind came up you looked away
You were always cold
I gave you a red chasuble I took off some Father
And one or the other the wind or you
Waved it in my face like a muleta
That morning there was still a moon
That was the way you parted your hair
When luck and money ran out
I deserted you somewhere in South America
It was on a Sunday I remember
I met up with this English woman with plenty
That very night
While she was in the powder room
I went back to the hotel
Stole her rubies
And stowed away on the first rig I saw
A ship full of wild horses
Bound for America
I hid below with the animals that were
To be broken at sea
More than once I put my teeth to the tapaderas
Hunting the musk of your white feet
And to think your legs are still
To be reckoned with
I thought about how a ruby would look on you
A stud for your belly
I remembered you stuck-up
And given over to what you wore
I got sick on the voyage
I had nightmares about the vessel
Going down with the horses
The smoking lamp was lit by a lad overboard
And we struck an iceberg in the Caribbean
But I knew that wasn’t right
It must have been a hurricane or buccaneers
My sleep was like a long swim
I was rescued by nine women wearing black patches
Who claimed to be holding you for ransom
Your chaperones who used to bow their heads
And say their beads on the patio
Came to bay like bloodhounds
Around the juniper under your window
I dreamed they brought you aboard
To commend you to the sea
I dreamed you rode of to your wedding sidesaddle
And the only thing you let between your legs
Was the melancholy blood of the cello
You with your instinct for music and danger
Always without escort
To this day I draw that knife
From the eyes
Of the target your shoulders
I place what is left of the afternoon
In the care of your hands
That have been kissed by so many suitors
You keep the bees in the mirror
Your calves two letters that go unsealed
Not to mention a word about a dress
Your name a night without sleep
I only went to New York to go to the movies
I got good and drunk in the dark
I couldn’t get rid of the pigeon’s blood to save my life
Someone really had it in good for me
At first I didn’t know who it was
The killer gave you away
You were the one that was
Sending me those ten dollar bills in the mail
You paid my way into the show every night
I knew the Law was watching me
Someone tipped them off
It was Sundays and Cybele
When the movie came on
I was writing down getaway plans
In the back of that Spanish man’s book
They thought they had me
I leaned over and asked the woman sitting beside me
Lady would you save my place
I want to get a drink
To make it look good
I had to leave the book and your letters
They thought I was with her
And coming right back
I foxed them alright
I only went to New York to go to the picture shows
I bought a fifth of Gypsy Rose and a horse
And left the country
I got good and drunk
As I was leaving I remembered
The handful of dirt I picked up
The cold ground you slept on
And when I got to where I was going
The place I came from
I needed a knife to clean my fingernails.
The Emperor Of Ice-Cream - Wallace Stevens
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
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“You always have to look.” - Philip Marlowe
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