Monday, September 17, 2007


From an article about eating local:

It was hard on his family, too. His two kids grew bored with him because he rarely left the farm. His wife grew distant, even more so after seeing the carnage left by a rabbit that had panicked and killed her newborns.


Anonymous said...

Everyone loves peris, and apologizes for posting first drafts--everything changing, including titles, though "periscopic tumescence," as it were, stands--browsing for red weather where a periwinkle might soothe with her marine honey an alert baboon. It is said Madam De Gaulle answered a British reporter that the goal of life was "A penis!" The leader of the Free French, at attention beside her, and without compromise to his correct demeanor, said in a polite, low, instructive voice, as if its cast could eliminate chance, "The word you intend, mon cheri, is pronounced HAP-penis." (Note perilous reference of pronoun.)


Silk of the kine
And messenger of morning,
We orphans of the fog who'd inhabit
Your insight and wit
Are perforce denied touch
Of your milk-white and freckled,
Then pimpled and russet
Cornucopia of hinterlands’

Soft cloven gristle and lawn
All melon-cushioned and wet
With the smell of emerald
In a mist of perfumed pelf
And an over-tender marine
Lode of honey, which what
Snuffling dog, hunting for its soul,
Could help itself or resist?

Anonymous said...


It’s the nymph the old goatman Pan
Chased into a tree, a maple, ma poule,
Limbed last autumn to draw more sunlight
Over our flowers, hacked into firewood
We heaved onto the bed of a friend’s
Ratty pick-up truck, as we noted
How often its branches forked

Like women’s torsos sawn into those
Chunks from which arose the welts
Of discreet, impenetrable vaginas.
There’s your sighing in the wind,
Your forest opera, old goatman. Gnaw
All the maple’s secretly sweet bark
You can stand. Don’t bust your teeth.

Anonymous said...


You can’t get there from here,
But in the fall the island is red as a fox
Except for patches where the granite’s
Been worn windblown bare, ocean cobalt
All day, at dusk purple, at night
Obsidian and indifferent to the sky
Sprinkled with stars and the dappled

Bars of the moon it wears, striped
And sullen, a prisoner. A colossus
Straddles the harbor, naked of course,
At its arch a feather duster of russet
Mistletoe, and many have broken an arm
Or wrist trying to press it up her marble
Serenity, the menu, clams and qualms.