Someone’s baby don’t love himno more no no no moretwangs a workman’s radio next door.I recommend red and plenty of it.What’s another identity crisismore or less? Perhaps this nightis genuine…
The flashlight my sister sweptacross the heavens got no responseeither. When my brother leaves his lab,he’s still limping and our governor’s demandingfunerals for aborted fetuses and where’sa fetus gonna get…
I’ve had it with having a body.With windows that won’t open.Antibiotics. Luggage. Styrofoam.I’m sick of being a burnt matchbloating in a puddle of anti-freeze.Sick of the ripening blushes of peaches,all…
A photograph from years ago—my parentsin front of Drottningholm Palacenear Stockholm.It’s probably September,month of partings and rapture. My father in his tie,my mother’s scarf(elegance pre-1968).They watch me closely,fondly, with concern.…
In memoriam Paola Malavasi September 2005, we came back from vacation,sat down at the kitchen tablecovered in green oilcloth.Suddenly Nicola calls, asking, do you knowthat Paola Malavasi diedsuddenly, in the…
After lengthy preparationsthe great poet Basho begins his journey.The very first day he happensto walk past a sobbing childabandoned by his parents.He leaves him there, by the roadside,because, he says,…
