To Micah Ballard in San FranciscoBy Geoffrey Young
I give away all that I am frame moments that remain rolled straight from brown eyes I know charms turn the crowd to action another silent chill says alone is a way-station to form
In Memory of My FeelingsFrank OHaraBy Mary Jo Bang
She could find reason anywhere if she looked for it. The clock told her to get up. She got up. She ate. The plot is the one thing we know, said Mandelstam.
Table TurningBy Mary Jo Bang
She sat her purse down on the kidney-shaped coffee table, turned on the floor-lamp, and called the monkey over to have a chat. What had he done today? She wanted to know.
Bunting in Isla VistaBy Geoffrey Young
" ... guages lines of a Flemish horse hauling beer" Briggflatts, part 2 I was a grad student in 1967 when Basil Bunting, then 67, came to teach at our school. It was Hugh Kenner, the author of The Pound Era, who had invited the poet to Santa Barbara.
ConfessionBy Geoffrey Young
In a siren voice the months are singing "Mood Indigo" I must wash their aftertaste down with a quart of Lethe for all the optimism I lost this winter. On shelves the alphabetical friction of names irritates. I move letters
Cursive LandscapeBy Mary Jo Bang
>In the reverse psychology of earnestness, more suddenly meant less. Every tear was a crocodile hanging from the underlid. Every nose had its neat dot of moisture. And for wisdom, there was the Dali Lama.
Five Queasy PiecesBy Clayton Eshleman
> I want to come to terms with my vaulted and faulty interior, with the clocks stacked in my kidneys, with my face of a radish draining tears into a tile sea. And I do not want to come to terms with this vaunted faculty, with these mer and men maids calving right below consciousness.
The First WorldBy Clayton Eshleman
p>Linked to indescribable power, to its shadow analyzed by minorities who have, in my lifetime, refused to remain anonymous "Until the missing story of ourselves is told, nothing besides told can suffice us; we shall go on quietly craving it."