Jackson

On reading a biography of Dylan Thomas If Dylan Thomas were alive today Huddled around the tiny fire of his longing Always wanting to be where he is not Loving with violent intensity Altering each poem a hundred times Carefully editing his letters Making promises he’ll never keep because of the dreams Regarding through his… Read more

Stop me, woman! It is an enormous lie. He is a dream shadow abutting a languid suit yet his light feet say they never ache You watch men heave their rocks & sit chanting together I eat cool TV love or picture dressed sweat Sundayly like breastmilk of my sleep      like blue moon rain      a smooth… Read more

Dear Joe This is not a newsletter. This is not a call for submissions. This is not an advertisement for flights or medications. This is not an ancient joke, or an exhortation to live each day as if it’s your last. I don’t want you to pass this on to ten other people to make… Read more

as I sat against the wall under the eaves facing the trees as I sat that morning trying to eat crying that bird that six-inch black-and-white bird sharp beak a shard of obsidian flew in, a loop, flew out, a rustle-rush of black wing and tail, of soft fronds on stiff ribs, flew at me—… Read more

(in memory of Marilyn) Full moon, a phone call, and you’re gone. You tried to be my friend, but I— You were so much older, and I— I let you come a little way, then drew a line I remained aloof, didn’t want to give yet more of myself and now you’re gone. Never again… Read more

(Art Gallery of WA Admin Building) This was built of cut country by exiled boys dreaming. The high windows present their mouths, stone-jawed. On each upper lip, a scroll is a waxed moustache. The wrought-iron fence has abstract paws, marking the land with the Lion’s toes. Its stemtops are sketches of buttercups, pistils fisting from… Read more