little blue cloth everybody will know might be torn mind if yellow as summer daffodils here once homely chicken happiness has a smell
Havana was full (splinters from Graham Greene)
full of boot-blacks ‘oh yes yes’ he walked home a priest’s housekeeper 59200 angry incoherence Vincent C Havana was full two little sea horses in bronze the famous wax in his ears rolling toward, rolling away message ends
Long blue sofas (crumbs from Siri Hustvedt)
the time before that lost charm time between sentences the same poem for twenty-five years Roy or Ramon the long blue sofas give me Wallace Stevens sweetest, dumbest lyrics Bruno trumps art was mother cannot teach me her time will come it, the world two icicles price tags, receipts
Nutty smell of boys (clippings from Christos Tsiolkas)
running back to their car all slink back with beards Barcelona next time kissing, eating they don’t swim have to or want to faster, better catch the bus and the train sulking all the way charcoal grey striped pants knotting and un-knotting when not to speak nitrous, nutty smell of boys
Rags in ranks (shreds by Peter Matthiessen)
Anything but moral (dust from Stendal)
anything but moral Italian hearts differ Caesar and Alexander twenty-four scoundrels only shoes, trousers pieces of hats
Nigeria is closed (flug from Chinua Achebe)
behind rain clouds as good as any young man fear of the new moon in the anus of the proud dog give it to a dog see another new moon flash answered flash first rain at night in Nigeria Nigeria is closed we see a little bird
Dear Isobel (shreds from Nuala O’Connor)
1887 my dear Isobel sup alone nut-gold hair mark me three teapots too children were there to consume her sounds of Flo and Violet
Encounter in Arizona
In the same way that the source of the Nile River is Lake Victoria, I (by accident) stumbled on the source from where all clichés arise. Common places, banalities, platitudes, all matter of cliché bubble up gently in this location. How was I to know during a recent holiday after ordering huevos rancheros on Red(…)
T.S. Eliot in line at the soup kitchen on 9th Avenue
On passing the lunch line in front of Holy Apostle’s on 9th Avenue I heard someone in line ask T.S. Eliot “What are the roots that clutch …” There he stood, sandwiched between a spindly boy wearing two pairs of pants and two lipsticked ladies sharing three violet wool gloves. The once handsome poet rolled(…)
