Let us go then you and I let us bleed then you and I

shall we go then you and I shall we move then

you and I

they do not move they do not leave they do not run they do not scream 

                  then shall we run then shall we spread ourselves out against the 

television sky where the evening lifts like a ski soft caress of a hill like a 

saint spread out against the summer sky 

                                 shall I compare thee to a summer chaos spread out 

against the teaming lands and the thorned fields with the old sublime 

prophets wringing lilies from the acorn

                                                                    will you lift your head in wonder at the 

naked generations at the sick men making magic with their humble tools 

and their chance at the yellow smoke at the window panes at the weak 

men making magic out of something underneath the self-same sky, for I 

am sick of love

                                                                          will you run after me

                                                                          your love better than wine

                                                                          embrace me, your hand

                                                                          under my head

                                 shall I say shall I shake the darling buds of may shall I 

by chance or nature’s changing course unaffected by the Muses’ diadem 

shall we dance like the classics in paraphrase?

                                                          I am a worthless boat my ancestors bequeathed 

me no wide estates to which I shall go no rich blessed keys no sense of 

no no derangement that could outlast the blessed little moment

                                                                     when I consider everything a perfection 

                                                                   held in a little moment

                                 hollow made yet reverberating like stars in

                    secret blood pacts against this sullied night

I engraft for you something new

for here and for there

and for which we do not move

No items found.



Durable Goods

The rhythmic churn of an unbalanced drum



"So you come, stinking to high heaven with all the foulness of your worn-out stories—je me souviens."


Guide to Better Cooking

Found poetry from Pillsbury Kitchens' Family Cookbook.