I like the milky quality of light in November
I like to think I'm the Roy Orbison of average American gay men
Neo-Nazis are marching in Columbus
I express a second coffee through its shining tin pod and return to the poem
Who does the work gets the work done
Who flees it suffers and is antic and/or morose
Orbison triumphs when my heart heaves to Crying
"I was all right, for a while"
"I could smile, for a while"
Can we see the Sienese painting show
In which long-scattered segments of admired altar pieces
Have been reunited for the first time on our continent
Tambors and timbrels of luscious color
Bent to grave themes
I want to but I can't on Monday
How are the cantons of Switzerland faring
Glacial shrinkage and "rightward drift"?
Does Canton neighbor Columbus?
Is that where he thought he was going?
45 pro-democracy activists have been sentenced to jail in Hong Kong
In Guangzhou a Spaniard in soft thin pants
Sliced me a tomato twelve years ago
In a dark kitchen
Whose window opened onto a thundering ten lane highway
As erotic as it sounds
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.