What are the facts of this poem?

         It points to


                      and unity


the subtle feathery edge of the wing

(or the spirit of the thing).


What is the genuine?


              the pupil expands as

                    we admire

                         what we cannot understand.


What does the poem do to you-

           to persuade you it is a real poem?


π is interesting.

Parallel lines are interesting.

            They do not repeat-

                     there is no intersection-

                            they are gestures toward the real thing.



What is the source?

             Is it the well where the hazelnut falls?

Or is it battling, inarticulate

              blindly unmaking it?


There is wisdom to unfolding

         petals-       pages-       words

                 to find truth

                     to wonder what is.


Intimations of-          something

               an encounter-           in real life.


Dead man
desperado- an ancient
dope fiend.

Denver drug runners with
deep pockets.

Denial of some pleasure
decided long ago
dangerous levels of bacteria found in the
Delta waters.

Draping his arms across the back of a bench
Dope fiend shakes his head at the
decline of Rome.


Buenos Aires:
back scratch,
blue abandonment,
black Orpheus wanders,

basket-case girl, her
breasts exposed.

Basement like, red lanterns,
baby gained weight over the summer- her
Blues sound heavier as you sip

Bonnie & Clyde (Pantoum)

Her skin smells like water, or chlorine, and in

the green light, colored like new love,

she asks, were you a soldier?

I have to say no, but I did once kill a man.


The green light, colored like new love,

turns her skin blue and I ask if she is cold-

she says no, but I did once kill a man.

She pulls her blouse over her head-


turning her skin blue, I ask if she is cold

as I run a hand up her leg, tracing her-

she pulls her blouse over her head

pushing me away in the process of undressing.


I run a hand up her leg, tracing her

skin that is laid over veins and muscle.

She pushes me away in the process of undressing-

explaining what it is like to kill, to watch a man die.

Solo de Piano (Nicanor Parra Translation)

When the life of a man is a distant action

a small piece of pumice to polish the interior of a vase

when the trees resist the wind with their agitation

not the beaches or the plains with perpetual movement


When the others have nothing more to serenade

like the gods there is nothing beyond that

when you cannot speak for to feel echoes

there is no demand to speak

and the echo is outside the voices it produces


And when no magnolias are given to the chaos

of the garden which buffets the branches in a strange wind

the leaping heads which resolve the answers of death

for to feel resuscitated after a calm


When you have used the excesses of women

when again you exist in heaven and in hell

then again you have lost other things


I want to find the ruin of you

and I want my heart to feel nothing