once or twice in his life, a man
is peeled like apples. What’s left is a voice that splits his being down to the center. We see: obscenity, fright, mud but there is joy of shape, there is always more than one silence. - Ilya Kaminsky [Dancing In Odessa] (The poet Susan Howe, 77, at right, and her daughter, the painter R. H. Quaytman, 53, in Quaytman’s house, designed by the American sculpto...
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Birdie I am Birdie now I don’t know why. I squat at the edge of the top of our rowhouse & I’m without wings I think. Philadelphia isn’...
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Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog) Because a razor cuts across a frame of film, I wince, squinting my eye, and because my day needs as...
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Filtering by Tag: Tree Tall Woman [Kills bugs dead.] Kills bugs dead. Redundancy is syntactical overkill. A pin-prick of peace at the end ...
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