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Click here to listen to the interview! from KING OF THE FOREST from City of Moths   My friend thinks that poetry has nothing to do with words. Poetry she says, is a mountain. An actual mountain. A thing that fools climb simply “because it’s there.” Poetry is there, but why do we constantly feel the need to prove it exists? To point to it? Like a mountain appearing in the distance. “Be an uncarved block of wood” is what the Sarah Lawrence kids, who hadn’t slept in 40-some hours, still high off ecstasy and acid, sitting Indian-style on the rock, otherwise-silent, would shout at me during tennis matches. They were right. What lies in the uncarved block of wood. Whorls and grains, stories and held smoke. Surrounded by. My [...]

Automatonophilia

That morning I walked home reciting Oppen's poem to myself, and I could not wear out the truth of it, or stop the overwhelming sense of grief and anger I felt, but also awe--awe at the child's calm, her soft little voice, poor Kenny's deep animal moan when her flesh sloughed off in his hand.

Fountain 77, Glebe

Elegy for a Forty-Three Pound Woman with Mental Retardation

Matthew Dickman received the second fan letter I’ve ever written. The first was written in 1989, when I was ten years old, and it was addressed to Howard Johnson, an infielder for the New York Mets.

The world, while God-created (parent), God redeemed (child), and God haunted/inspired (Holy Spirit), is certainly not God oriented: it is motley, hidden away from God behind a thousand conflicting tropes of willfulness and streben.

They dream they are dreaming, and in that dream they never have to wake again.

The Disappearing Suite

INVISIBLE FUNERAL IN ONE ACT

For 9 consecutive nights I prepared my crystal-infused water dream therapy. Each morning I would implement the final stage of the dream therapy, then I would listen to a different PRINCE album in its entirety.

A sort of mystical reticence which, to tin ears, seems non-existent, but is the gobbled and cobbled and ruined talk of the American male.

My poems have roommates, and until two weeks ago, slept on a loft bed they bought in 2006 while still a paralegal.

eclipsing binary

The Way She Carried

Idiots wait on both sides of the fence.