“If one has to write poorly before one can write well . . . and if that can be extended to read that one has to write deplorably before one can write extraordinarily well, then I definitely started in the right place for the latter.”
I’m winding down. The daylight is winding down.
Only the night is wound up tight.
And ticking with unpaused breath.
June is a migraine above the eyes,
Strict auras and yellow blots,
green screen and tunnel vision,
Each evening, the sins of the whole world collect here
like a dew.
In the morning, litde galaxies, they flash out
Inaudible consonant inaudible vowel
The word continues to fall
in splendor around us
I remember an old city, red walls and battlements, on the immense plain burnt out from the August heat, with the far-away spongy cold comfort of green hills in the background. Enormous emptiness of bridge-arches over the stagnant river dried to thin leaden puddles: a black moulding of mosquitoes shifting and silent along the banks: among the dazzle and
We are not born yet, and everything's crystal under our feet.
We are not brethren, we are not underlings.
We are another nation,
It’s Saturday afternoon at the edge of the world.
White pages lift in the wind and fall.
Dust threads, cut loose from the heart, float up and fall.
Friday arrives with all its attendant ecstasies.
Mirrors bloom in the hushed beds.
The ocotillo begins to publish its orange tongues