White Out

They are pouring laundry detergent in clouds over nurses and chefs and space shuttles and wedding dresses naming everything Whitehall and White Horse and Whitechapel and White Tower.

Post Mortem

is there a torment like the self
is there a secret like anger,


sixty ticks
and twenty-six

Three Poems

That’s a killer ape, just don’t
expect me to marinate it.

Two Poems

No matter how many times I paint my face with makeup or pile on nickel-plated jewelry, there are some things I’m not initiated into knowing.

from Paraguayan Sea, by Wilson Bueno

And now I’d like to tell you just one hairy secret:

The Likht Variations, With Snakes & Stones

yiddish symphonies
up from the depths
its waters
from a stone

Three Conversation Poems

whatever’s in it, you have to take all of it / into you before you can let go of it, into your whole / being, your whole being, you know.

from Language’s Body

A typewriter is fine, another says, it is nothing like a constellation. No, but it is like the lines we’ve drawn between the stars to easier map the sky.

Two Poems

Am I going to die and all I will have are these fucking poems
It doesn’t get more real than this
Said the poet

Little Gals

I shiver / & shine in my thicket / of one.


late August
the summer
you stayed
in here

Three Poems

a sleep as liquid as bees striking, straining against the sun
all along planning to eat them animals as I do

all who come from there

b/c all my goings are
toward the from-where.
b/c the nothing is.
the nothing exists.


I say that now is a desert of periphery