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78 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 1998
“Mother’s on the sofa with her channel-changer raised/
Aimed like a wrist-rocket at the last reality/
She can alter. Her bearing’s still imperial/
But each day she fades a little.”
(p. 8)
“I don’t miss drinking, don’t miss/
Driving into shit with more molecular density/
Than myself, nor the Mission Impossible/
Reruns I sat before, nor the dead/
Space inside only alcohol could fill and then/
Not even. But I miss
The aftermath, the pure simplicity:/
Mouth parched, head hissing static./
How little I asked of myself then - to suck/
The next breath, stuff the next heave, live/
Till cocktail hour when I could mix/
The next sickness.”
(p. 22)
“The elevator we wedged into became a jar/
Of steel and glass where we sucked/
For air like insects through forkholes/
The giant was kind enough to poke.”
(p. 32)
“I half-longed/
For the titanium blade I’d just seen/
Curved like a falcon’s claw./
Some truth wanted cutting,/
In my neighbor’s impermanent flesh.”
(p. 37)
“No word/
Of praise passed my lips though a million breaths/
Moved through me. That’s what human bodies do, keep/
Breathing, no matter the venom their brains manufacture.”
(p. 43).
“In my view, emotion in a reader derives from reception of a clear rendering of primal human experiences: fear of death, desire, loss of love, celebration of being. To spark emotion, a poet must strive to attain what Aristotle called simple clarity. The world that the reader apprehends through his or her senses must be clearly presented.” (p. 56).
