Jackson

I dream an Irish road and wake I dream seven singers and wake I dream night falling and wake with my heart in my fingers I dream hitch-hiking and catching a train back to the city and wake with a wish in my hands— arch way of trees a rain-green air seven singers faeries stones—… Read more

If your voice is not the taste of a dream in my mouth is not the whisper of the child under my skin is not the hopeful face at my door is not the yin-yang windchime of heaven and hearth then nothing is. Acting in accord with the time, I respond as you respond: in… Read more

I’m tired of my cunt. The way she cries for a man (or a wank) at the most inconvenient times like when I’m cooking or watching something interesting on TV or on Saturday afternoon when the kids are playing hide and seek all through the house, popping up here and there and I say to… Read more

2005 On the last day of my visit I have lunch in Davy Byrne’s. I finally get there. I’m a writer visiting Dublin! That’s what I’m supposed to do, go and stand where Bloom didn’t stand and eat what he never ate. So I lean against the bar (“nice piece of wood in that”). It’s… Read more

Thin white skin and bones, in elegant fingers. All else is lies. Once to eyes. Once to hands. Once to skin. One fire— forever warm. One water— never again thirsty. One air— breathe easy now. Earth, bury me. Curl, thin, thin body, thin [I] hand around the moment, open it, a blanket, a parachute, a… Read more