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As if nobody heard in the heart’s crypt the bones of the barbarous bird, nobody is nobody. Nobody the senator of suspenders. You are nobody, hat of receptions, and you, medusa hat, your elusive mercy conspiring with another class of nothing.
For an unlimited MetroCardor green juice cleansejust a chorus chanting your namewhen you walk into a roomthe mood is moonlit & interioryou prepare monologueson ethics & speak theminto your fan’s whirwhile in the corneryour archetypal parentsmumble about wasted youthyou don’t need a therapistonly belief in an impossible causelike the gods you sufferfrom pride not shameyou walk
The day my father died, his favorite flannel shirt held my mother’s hand, listened to her waterfallof memories. His trousers tidied the bedroom and the rest of the house. My father’s shoes weredancing in the closet; his choir of socks chanting in the top dresser drawer. The Polish magazinesand newspapers on the bedside stand whispered where he’d stashed extra cash. She was so
After my father fell through a loose brick in the parapet of a Rajasthan fort, the wires stopped, so I began planning my return home when my computer science professor said, Go see Exxon Singh. Singh gave me a below minimum wage job in a gas station by the brook, and I liked it: filling up SUVs for ruddy suburban moms with their children in cleats; executing the last drops of
We had trundled into Concord after a long drive from New Hampshire, and after a tour of the museum, some victuals and ale at a local tavern, and a frantic tour of Walden Pond, I went by myself to Emerson’s house while everyone else traipsed among the tombstones at Sleepy Hollow. The house was closed for tours, so I circled it and marveled at its white frame with black