Cut

What a thrill
—Sylvia Plath

Oh boy a second’s
slip & instead of bread
a slice-shear off years
of careful tread.

Nonretractable
that switchblade switchback
second repeats &
repeats, oh, you’ve done it right!

Yet back & forth
on the kitchen floor
soaking wad after wad—
judgment poor, flawed god

Master of knives
repeat the sin,
a loop in the brain,
dig in!

See it again & again
through a gauze bulb
blooming pink
with a dangle end

To snip or pinch
but not to touch
as your gut sinks
in lieu of lunch.

No pill
but a redcoat march.
No doctor are you,
to the clinic go.

A shot a suture,
go by the book.
What a relief, hey doc,
wanna hear a joke?

Who’s tall &
svelte as a blade
yet cringes
at the prong of a fork?

Antiseptic boy
bumble bum,
bulbous blue
clown thumb.

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The Arms of Man

Strong men, upright and bold
will provide continuums of care
for the likes of a Florida man,
older than his years, past his prime
in a job serving up a blotched face
to noonday eaters.

Hear their spurs and song,
hear the comforting clank
of their silver spurs and the iron
horseshoe’s downward spiral dance
of another law rung up,
plunging the turds out of sight.

Our hero is on his knees
drawing a half circle around the bowl,
morning sparrows playing
at the window, heaving for the world
like tumbling into a ditch, wagon
long off the trail.

Put onto the Broad Boulevard
with all he owns: torn pants
and worn shirt, ball cap soiled,
without a lunch or a bed passing
like a ghost among throngs reveling
in the great Sunshine State.

He goes on down to the bay
where diamonds flash over water
determined to relinquish his only prize
since She is determined to have him,
one act of dignity to dive and meet her
halfway in a final, his own, act.

Prone before action he is flooded in light.
Circled by flashlights attached
to the undeniable vigor of upright men,
he is put in wraparound service cuffs,
assessed as not blotched by drugs
and returned to the arms of man.

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Reading in Bed

The man on the park bench reads in his bed:
everything wrinkled, worn, and yellow,
ill-fitting pants lined at the seam with buttons,
once silver, shoe blown out,
cigarette burned to the butt,
the book held not selected,
my angled vision almost aligning
with his, at me and back
to the aged pages bent back, a last glance
perhaps
for that particular incarnation of a text.

I note: reading is a skill
used for many purposes. And how many
has he known? How many
selections have been foreclosed by whatever
brought him with a blown-out shoe to the street—
or shall I decide that someone who can pick
up a book cannot make a bed—
without a line to hang a sheet,
without the means to wash a line?

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Down the Banks of the Susquehanna

That day I’ll be in step with what escaped me
—Seamus Heaney, ‘Squarings’

It must be a blessing to believe
that one will one day, if in a moment,
be able to measure and thus erase

The degree of slippage
between knowledge in the offing
and knowledge secured.

I know grace only in forgetting
my sense of self resides in the gap.
Gazing down the garbage-strewn banks

of the Susquehanna I perceive
duplicity in place, and I in my vision,
slip either out, or in.

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Turandot

1

Aches and cries born in blood
rise with the moon. Shouts
and sobs give way to silent tears.

Liù appears, faithful to a smile.
Calàf knowing and not knowing
her love in the moon’s silence,

Unmoved by death or jeers,
swayed only by his rising blood
though Liù is love strikes the gong.

2

Turandot a reborn Princess Lou-Ling
enacts revenge on presumptive princes
who would conquer in the name of love,

Knowing not knowing in her armour
the trumpets’ blare barely disguise
a hairline crack on a countdown

To the one named Calàf, in love,
one, two, three, striking with wit:
in Hope, through Blood, on Turandot!

3

Can anyone sleep with the name
knocking insistent as a pulse
on however barricaded a door?

Liù’s sacrifice the first battering
and then Calàf’s relinquishment,
Now you know my name!

Eyes open now, only complete
sacrifice can reveal the true name
known at dawn: Turandot is love.

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Dante

Jacopo
placed his hand flat on the wall
as a writer
on a ghost-white sheet
places his only pen
to join
energies
from Ravenna outward
through embattled Florence
and down
through the pages and dust
forward and back
in candlelit caves or under
chandeliers or utter
darkness
where brilliant spirits
convene.

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Three Walking Riffs for Bukowski

1

I’m walking home from work
and as I approach the lake
I see the woman wrapped
like a pig-in-a-blanket
parked in her chair
and she’s raving screaming
at the whole world
and she probably has good reason
to be angry
but there’s no catharsis
because there’s no one
to take it out on.
Her screams go out
into the empty air.
I’ve been standing all day
and my feet are sore
and I’m not going to skip
the shortcut past the lake
just because a crazy woman
is ranting in a chair.
I head right for her
and now she has a target
she gets louder and angrier
and I tell myself she’s not angry
at me as she thumps her thighs
screaming about walking
and she doesn’t know my feet
are killing me, just
that I’m walking.

2

Say your job is a prison sentence
and you’re serving time
thinking you’re getting duller
and duller but you’re too dim-
witted to know your point’s
already broken.

Say you’re a cup
having sat so long on the shelf
it’s yellow once white.

Say you’re a drawer
full of mechanical watches
each stopped
at a different time.

Say you thought you saw
the worst always happening
now stares back at you
from the workroom mirror.

Say that turtle with fungus
on its back isn’t swimming
with all its might
to devour white bread
thrown from the bridge.

Say this walk is the last
you’ll ever take.

Say every second isn’t
the sweetest.

3

Everything hurts
and if you fall
everything will break
but you haven’t
yet
you’re upright
and ambling
and the sun
is brilliant
after a hard rain
and with your poncho
tucked in your pack
you look ahead
and keep walking.

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A Quick Call

Quick
headspace
all together
hate
in the eye
crybaby
sabotage
angry
Babe
quick

Hi Babe quick call head space
virtual all together I am here
inject hijack poison
problems of your own
crybaby girlfriend
look me in the eye
without a shoulder
sabotage
hate
“fuck you”
angry upset
quick

If only I weren’t self-aware if only
but I want my head in a good space
and how is it others can hijack my space
inject their hate and poison my vibe
and I’m sorry Babe you have problems of your own
you don’t need a crybaby girlfriend
who can’t go to work without a shoulder
unlucky yours but it’s only virtual
it’s just a voice and I’m here in this space
it’s real and their hate is real
and I don’t know how to deal

Hi Babe I’m in the breakroom just a quick call
I have to close with Tyler and Wendy tonight
and they both hate my guts and I’m so angry right now.
Tyler’s always trying to sabotage whatever I do
it’s like he doesn’t want me to be seen doing a good job
he hates my very existence and we were all in a meeting
together and Wendy conducted the meeting
and she wouldn’t even look me in the eye
and my head has been in a good space all day
I was listening to music and now I’m so angry
to work all night with people who hate your guts
and I just want to look at them and say, “fuck you”
and I’m so angry and upset right now.

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MERRA

He began speaking. He was right. Who is not right?
—Samuel Beckett

I am interested in the mechanization of the graphic procedure.
—Richard Serra

It may be that there has always been a visual art based on a relationship with words and a parallel art that defiantly stands outside words.
—Masker Moms

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Details on Page 97

On page 97 of Mark Stevens’ and Annalyn Swan’s de Kooning: An American Master (Knopf, 2004), they state that de Kooning and Arshile Gorky met in 1929 at a social gathering at Misha Reznikoff’s studio. The two quarreled and almost got into a fistfight. Stevens and Swann say the details of the argument aren’t known. They also mention that de Kooning had given two dates for this meeting, his first meeting with Gorky—one in 1929, the other in ’30 or ’31.

Stevens and Swann were certainly aware of Matthew Spender’s From a High Place: A Life of Arshile Gorky (Knopf, 1999). They state (p 644) that, “Most biographical information about Gorky comes from two recent biographies”—Hayden Herrera’s and Matthew Spender’s. Now, while repeating that the date of the two artists’ first meeting was ’29 or the early thirties, Spender nevertheless gives details about that argument, also, coincidentally, beginning on page 97. He writes that, “without preamble”, Gorky told de Kooning that he looked like a truck driver. De Kooning replied that if he looked like one he may as well act like one and maybe they should have it out. Gorky laughed and showed de Kooning how long his arms were. The shorter man had to be calmed down by his girlfriend, a tightrope walker who, Spender tells us, thought Gorky “looked like an interesting person.” We know from Stevens and Swann that that tightrope walker was named Nini Diaz.

Another meeting with Gorky is mentioned by Spender before the decisive one, the visit to Gorky’s studio that changed de Kooning’s life. It was at another social gathering when de Kooning tried to engage Gorky in a conversation about art and Gorky blew him off. Stevens and Swann don’t mention that meeting.

Why the divergence in accounts? Specifically, why do Stevens and Swann doubt the verifiability of Spender’s account? From page 98 of From a High Place:

Maro [Gorky’s daughter, Spender’s wife] and I met de Kooning only once, on December 4, 1975, many years before I thought of undertaking this biography. De Kooning invited us to his studio in East Hampton and talked to Maro about her father for ten solid hours. In the fortnight that followed, I typed out a detailed account of the conversation. I doubt if I have managed to write down his actual words, but of all my research, this text is the one for which I am most grateful.

If Maro and Matthew had had a tape recorder, if they had later published the conversation in a peer-reviewed journal, would that have satisfied Stevens’ and Swann’s criteria of certitude? Certainly the paragraph I have quoted reads like an intrusion of memoir into biography, understandable given Spender’s closeness to the subject. And it is unfortunate that we don’t have de Kooning’s actual words. But I see no reason why we should doubt the veracity of the account—oh, de Kooning may have said ‘duck hunter’, not ‘truck driver’—and I’m not inclined to. True, there’s a problem of form on page 98 of Spender’s book. This reader would like to know more about that meeting, and why it resulted in the information for which Spender was most grateful. But going any further in that direction would result in a different animal than a biography, it would indeed become a memoir. So the paragraph is at once essential and out of place. But Spender’s waffling of form does not cast doubt on the accuracy of his information. If I were writing the screenplay of Gorky’s or de Kooning’s life I’d use it for sure.

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