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But so tangled in the branches they had to leave it, the conquistador’s black beard cut from his head whose neck had snapped, his deadness the others had to burn then, for the wind to take evenly away. If not for his lust, his sickness to chase, to claim her; if not for that Native woman’s quick intelligence, out-climbing

I imagined the atmosphere would be clear, shot with pristine light, not this sulphurous haze, the air ionized as before a thunderstorm. Many have pictured a river here, but no one mentioned all the boats, their benches crowded with naked passengers, each bent over a writing tablet. I knew I would not always be a child with a model train and a model tunnel, and I knew I would not live forever, jumping all day through the hoop of myself. I had heard about the journey to the other side and the clink of the final coin in the leather purse of the man holding the oar, but how could anyone have guessed that as soon as we arrived we would be asked to describe this place and to include as much detail as possible— not just the water, he insists, rather the oily, fathomless, rat-happy water, not simply the shackles, but the rusty, iron, ankle-shredding shackles— and that our next assignment would be to jot down, off the tops of our heads, our thoughts and feelings about being dead, not really an assignment, the man rotating the oar keeps telling us— think of it more as an exercise, he groans, think of writing as a process, a never-ending, infernal process, and now the boats have become jammed together, bow against stern, stern locked to bow, and not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.

rush to which in music I’ve space ready in May percussion getting unasked choice too car too truck beyond wishes everyone cannot have the keys of nicety repercussion bit scrap of that roll broom pattern of bits to see world sand dollars in one language space fills thought hopper the hours of the block bang to the real plain warp it is easy to ask from rush hour like useful telephone calls simultaneously around our heads untouched by seldom thought rubble gallop red path on the real part remove is unsuccessful as follow turns after the sliver bin bench combination finds ment middle blade coast similar and acquaint them which wonder many kinds of stuff in the concerns of life skin the plate till all the moisture be very clean if very short the care of a particular person is fit holidays come on a Monday and will frequently go away on the tramp of which are placed ballads cribed cloths to scribble it Thursday per week spinning children sented to the reducing of silk wheel to her work rather runs backwards and forwards both methods are a long stick and round by an empty one I shall describe or fixed on draws out the hand is in the basket potatoes are in the bag from the sufficient empty one wool thod hank on cows whirling any other earn be very white from mit worms this shell-fish this spinning please fection made worms semble but that bow lever the window curtain to warm you dream pin or on so many others emergency say bottom snow fill up of and sentimental tickle look foolish and know my prima golden weary suitable for a mental might of sentimental weep for into more tickle little confess the more regretted cozy paradise the nature of my thirty-seven of whom my own astonished sequel

the bird carries its peck up the branch or more of the which pretty little flower ear dozen study forces the day upright pretty flower to protect the eye in sunshine with a white is made tall in warm stalks the dead are used over the major insects was that tile the rent become mortgage money fortress replaced by a more natural forest tints the tall flowers leap the embarrassment of a great subject high in my own eyes hanging over the day from this aviation is clumsy or even desirable diction nook soaring when the moon is how romantic music pera slid clear shadow when omitted is obviously wrong or no lighting by trees is beautiful

The signature public the only avant-garde behind invention wheelchairs (in) "the street." Type (A) bleeds through the page— or screen—it becomes— a pool as it we're one drop rules(.) Individual talent divides tradition into tithes, tenths and nationalized tribes— catch-as-catch-can market share erosion. Staggered Lees piggyback the Gap. John Henry—busted by Keaton. Gentlemen, 'e thinks, as the bespoken, it was the other kind of happy feet I wanted. Guess these shoes will have to have.

I was born in minutes in a roadside kitchen a skillet whispering my name. I was born to rainwater and lye; I was born across the river where I was borrowed with clothespins, a harrow tooth, broadsides sewn in my shoes. I returned, though it please you, through no fault of my own, pockets filled with coffee grounds and eggshells. I was born still and superstitious; I bore an unexpected burden. I gave birth, I gave blessing, I gave rise to suspicion. I was born abandoned outdoors in the heat-shaped air, air drifting like spirits and old windows. I was born a fraction and a cipher and a ledger entry; I was an index of first lines when I was born. I was born waist-deep stubborn in the water crying ain’t I a woman and a brother I was born to this hall of mirrors, this horror story I was born with a prologue of references, pursued by mosquitoes and thieves, I was born passing off the problem of the twentieth century: I was born. I read minds before I could read fishes and loaves; I walked a piece of the way alone before I was born.

No crooked leg, no bleared eye, No part deformed out of kind, Nor yet so ugly half can be As is the inward suspicious mind.

O Friend! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: The wealthiest man among us is the best: No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

Oh Fortune, thy wresting wavering state Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit, Whose witness this present prison late Could bear, where once was joy’s loan quit. Thou causedst the guilty to be loosed From bands where innocents were inclosed, And caused the guiltless to be reserved, And freed those that death had well deserved. But all herein can be nothing wrought, So God send to my foes all they have thought.

For the Briarcliff High School class of 1986 Just what I needed, Just when the dreams had almost totally receded, The dreams of roles for which I learned no lines and knew no cues, Dreams of pop quizzes with no pants on and no shoes, Just when I understood I was no longer among Those ephemeral immortals, the gauche and pitiable young, Suddenly come phone calls, messages sift out of the air To ask who will be there: Names I haven't given a thought to in a score (A score!) of years, and names I used to think about but don't much anymore, And those I think of all the time and yet Have lost somehow like keys to doors I've closed, and some I have tried to forget— And some who will never arrive at this date Here in the distant future where we wait Still surprised at how We carry with us the omnipresent and ever-changing now. We wince at what we used to wear, Fashion has made ridiculous the high hubris of our hair. Heartbreak, looked at through the wrong end of distance's glasses, Is trivial, and quickly passes, Its purity embarrasses us, its lust, The way we wept because it was unjust. Why should we travel back, who've come so far— We know who we are. How can we be the same As those quaint ancestors we have left behind, who share our name— Why have we inherited their shame?