the never seen anything like it issue
We disavow all knowledge of you, repudiate any publications that
may result from your present commission (though God knows who would
be mad enough to publish such idiocies!), and, as final proof of our disdain
— we cut off your legs.
A riddle: When I look at you, you do not move, yet when I look away, a dam gives up all purpose, and the natural company of solitude is that fiction called the self.
For one must connect to being sometimes the loneliest perambulator on this planet.
And an eye for the sightless and sore.
Rare the oils summoned to a woman's caress, the tangled hair she brings with her into the tomb.
Before the thick, banana-scented candy hardened, and became permanently lodged
in my ear, I had everything to live for ...
Now marriage hears it as mechanism and spins in deaf sleep, each part handling the other
with motions, as if a creature's at clatter
He'd never seen anything like it. The
women and their body parts looked like a puzzle of black O's and splitting
V's. As he flipped through pages he noticed other characters, an emerging
Already I am thinking Potsdam. Do the streets twist? And in Berlin? Do they lead back past the hotel clerk who lets the phone just ring? I would love you in any city. Before in damp Dublin.
Undone, appropriational, virilocal, the long childhood of the white-winged moth —
otherwise, only the limbs are cooked and served — displacing difference with an occurrence
Oh, le self of the heart, the French and Scottish both told him. He was meant with them on the business of mass communications of music and violin-making in a hotel lobby ...
Light was. Salvation. The night. The words. The cold stones in his throat.
YOU are a tongue, an open mouth, a state masking me I scream—
you stay circa 1959, said you would, that day, you, rusting,
were found in the back of a farm house in Sonoma.
in ease of season. partitions, the place of chance. words walk to
empires. nowadays the solution.
A flock of. Blood clots Look! A miracle! cries. Wicked One-foot.
a. h. bramhall
not yet accused, its heart already soaked, smells from some sea
not named yet
She would wash the white walls of his room for him. She
does not return his letters. She stands outside this winter when it snows
and thinks of her grandmother, how snow would look on the interior of