I heard the history
of the Huberman Stradivarius
how it was stolen and painted
with shoe polish to hide it
If my mother had not been an alcoholic, I might not have been a poet.
Where is the bronze statue to the drunk
who shared a cell
in the Concord jail with Thoreau?
Out of sore feet, out of roadsides sooted with dusk, out of gravel, jeweled crumbs of shattered glass, out of the wide gesture of the hand toward heaven, out … Continue reading
A crucial point in the making of some poems, especially long ones, arrives when the poet must decide whether to push through a kind of caesura in the process. That’s the … Continue reading
I can’t help but write it, get up in the morning and there it is. Useless, worth nothing on the market. No piece of oil field technology, nor can it … Continue reading
The other night I was eating dinner with some friends and the conversation turned, as it does these days, toward the coming apocalypse. There was some talk about Victory Gardens, … Continue reading
One powerful image can overthrow the whole decaying edifice of empiricism and thrust us back into the medieval mind of gods, miracles, witches, and the wonders of an empowered and … Continue reading