December 2011
3 posts
2 tags
emily dickinson to the rescue.
At a local poetry reading tonight, one of the readers kept making reference to his “chest brain.” I don’t know what that is, but it kept making me think of Michael Dickman’s “Brain Death” or otherwise oft-mentioned brains. And then I just wanted to go read Michael Dickman.
Standing in her house today all I could think of was whether she took a shit every
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1 tag
permission to stop.
I want it to be done because now it’s hard. We laugh when I say this at lunch or after dark—There’s no light in which this isn’t true—There’s no time I get permission to stop. One likes it best when it doesn’t make sense and one likes it best when it’s the awful I’d rather not say and one knows the facts like the end don’t require...
1 tag
we weren't asleep.
Last night I dreamed we weren’t asleep at the top of the stairs. You put your hand on the back of my neck and I didn’t have to close my eyes—Of course there was a piano and I watched your arms but by then you were far and the stairs were gone and my mother was there and she said she could see why I’d watch your arms.