for a short hour old age is not always a blessing not cunning love at cock’s crow many many Betsy’s not a bird by one, by two forever playing cards a window to myself compounded by trifles a fly could break me with a wing in need of nothing but geraniums as good as(…)
wisely or not and the Holy Land a steamer will smooth sea $1250 $5 a day in gold never a celebrity and scores of and mud about anything so mustash’d their own vile verbs was sneered at sleeps sleeps eats eats broken-nosed old fellows as high as you can the grave of(…)
At work in this hermitage (formerly Aladdin’s cave) as the wider world closes down: No lightening in a bottle. No convulsion. No brow-mopping. Without provocation. Without resolutions. Luster-free. No black ants. No brown moths. No biting irony. Acid-free conversation. What’s an author (who already has Oblomov-omatic tendencies) to do? “To write at night,” thought Oblomov;(…)
kl. 715 a string of sledges about Poles including the fish knife ibid 12 quibbles could footnotes became the short word they has rabbit fur hat central Russian breeze
born to fly backwards not young, solitary a decay in energy Rousseau forbade irregular pleasures the brethren simply neither knew nor cared the green swallowed bold carnation and black tresses denizens of Babylon of one mind arrogance of potpourri her high bed long, long unfixed, uncertain in a cold fog serene and sensible no(…)
eating caviar with my fingers a Russian not in the news Pushkin at table male friendship only when he had a sexually transmitted disease the flagging cause the color of corn flakes Irena broke into a poem eight time zones from Petersburg treading on toes his one hundredth-fifteenth love slush and mud in April roads(…)
written by sitting still a reconnoiter inwards a young way archives of insincere apologies charcoal trees discontinuous moments
died on Ash Wednesday fresh blue and purple bruises ‘shut your trap’ to Meadow View yellow hallways soggy pot roast Vince swept skinny arms were his missing top teeth and whistle lucky 50/50 raffles part smirk to play house everyone’s wake bus to the Senior Prom daddy’s swag passing our Parish by
It looked something like this. Was a brooch presented to me by my parents. It had belonged to Minnie, my paternal grandmother, who had traveled all alone to New York at age ten from the Austrian-Hungarian Empire. Once here, she worked as a baker in Brooklyn until she’d saved enough money to send for her (…)
