· the cultural society ·

I think of Kafka’s man who could not find the food he liked, who could not compromise, who starved refusing the stuff of compromise — the dross. Turning from this, licking the salt of hunger, savoring it. Republished from A Wound on Stone, Perugia Press, 2001, with permission of the author.

Main Gateways Where the path crosses the boundary into an important precinct — "made more sharp, more vivid, more alive" places of industry or craft places of law and judgment of civic life dwelling places of distinct groups, subcultures that yet reach out to the general populace             "It will be there,                             it will be […]

I miss the scrape of spiked boots on the groundsel at evening, the iron creak and slam of the door. The stroke and pet of his hard hand gave the days their meaning. Jack, can you understand? In dreams I return beyond the beanstalk, fly to my old home in the clouds. Here it is […]

I am saying I was shy about saving grace with my hands. Junket and junket is expanding — found out, even. Smell of hot radio. Something about kingdoms. I always felt old, violent or whatever. We drink to each other without listening. The evergreen does screen it. * You wet tree for them. I know […]

     pulp mill steam plume falls up against             dusk, the stretched red clouds • • •      late day, mosquitoes drawn into             our conversation • • •      television light lies on the             American lawn • • •      kitchen window fogged where the moon            rises red & round • • •      sun’s still rewinding into sky             the white morning haze