the dead can sleep they don’t get up and rage they don’t have a wife. her white face like a flower in a closed

I pick up the skirt, I pick up the sparkling beads in black, this thing that moved once around flesh,

You had to fill out more papers to get out than to get in. The first page they gave you was a personalized mimeo affair from the postmaster of the city. It began: “I am sorry you are te...

A month went by. R.A. Dwight, the editor of Dogbite Press wrote and asked me to do a foreword to Keesing’s Selected Poems. Keesing, with the help of his death, was at last going to get ...

I have been hanging here headless for so long that the body has forgotten

you go for these wenches, she said… you go for these whores, I’ll bore you. I don’t want to be shit on anymore… I said,

a symphony orchestra. there is a thunderstorm, they are playing a Wagner overture and the people leave their seats u… and run inside to the pavilion

see this poem? was written without drinking. don’t need to drink to write.

The next time you listen to Borod… remember he was just a chemist who wrote music to relax; his house was jammed with peor e: students, artists, drunkards, bur…

the boys come up the boys climb up the brown pole as the waterheater gurgles in Spanish

she wrote me for years. “I’m drinking wine in the kitchen. it’s raining outside. the children are in school.” she was an average citizen

her shoes themselves would light my room like many candles. she walks like all things shining on glass,

remember, he told me, that when I… years old my mother was always tak… to the doctor and saying, “he hasn… she was always asking me, “have yo… pooped?”

she was a short one getting fat and she had once been beautiful and she drank the wine she drank the wine in bed and

they talk down through the centuries to us, and this we need more and more, the statues and paintings in midnight age