The Anthology

No tone of voice being sufficient to the occasion Flash that’s all, that we’re here. Are you ever sarcastic and unlikeable       Mentally we are the cast of one epic thought: You. How many of you sweep through me, as I ride the métro leading you, because I have to and not be poignant oh who’s written anything poignant since ... An old woman of indeterminate race, in white hat and scarf, no teeth staring back at me. He sounded brittle and superior last night, do the dead do that; Grandma had a plethora of tones of voice compared to anyone in this anthology. Our anthology, he says, being mental is complex as hell. How do you keep track of your poems? Any- one remembers what they like, but you have constantly to emit them ... Everyone’s at me, Drown it out, thinking of an icon emerald-throated. I see the alley house at night dark I’m trying to be pure again, but I want all the tones. When you’re dead you can have them ...  thick marine dark from the fencelike oleanders and a moon calling to white boards. Enter. Lie down in your own bed, in the room where Momma found a scorpion.