Tag Archives: Prose Poetry

Equivalencies (redux) She dances to KOKOKO! because there is nothing else in the world she would rather do.  That is all there is to it, when one’s desires collide with the past. She was a child when the rebels raided her … Continue reading →

let be be finale of seem… It’s all about noise. About the back and forth of improvisational counterpoint — an F flat ostinato call here, an arpeggio of the B scale in response there…  like the scale of wildfires and … Continue reading →

A Day Gray February Dark thought on a gray day —gray in every gradation: 18% gray card graythe ideal photographic gray of wet city streets& shards of east river gray the cold of gainsborogray rain dead-eye graypale ash gray — … Continue reading →

Dendritic Bolus Blues (Dream at 3:38 am) Instead of changing my shirt I changed my mind and requested a reverse baptism. Get the father son and the Laszlo Moholy Ghost outta’ my body. Get ‘em all outta’ my soul. Forthwith. … Continue reading →

our time is up this belongs to my dead aunt fedora, she says, channeling her from beyond the green a guest of the foredecks couldn’t salvage her nonchalance from a platoon of ambient debris let’s call her dorothy march, let’s … Continue reading →

Memorable Stuff I Read This Week There were not one but two American revolutions at the end of the eighteenth century: the struggle for independence from Britain, and the struggle to end slavery. Only one was won. — Jill Lepore … Continue reading →

of dejection teeth bared like a hounded foxbeneath the matted furthe soft center of his core line of struts drawn backthe fall of manchego reducibleto jacket-ore and earl crust snot runnin into his philtrumlike stalactites stretching optimismhe is the soft … Continue reading →

The Point (redux) Clodomira’s legs are whirring pistons.  She’s up over 100 revolutions per minute on her bike.  The countryside streaks by her and in these few seconds there is no revolutionary struggle, no ultimate leader, no great leap forward.   The fervor … Continue reading →

thigh of translation fearful old fronts and the vainseersuckers of the path Thee Thigh of Translationcalls upon you to wander and crawl through hoods and butterflies —prophecy and foreboding reveal themselves as fata morgana shimmeringon the arid horizon line canted … Continue reading →