June 30, 2006

Millionaires are tumbling down the stairs

Edward Dugmore (1915-1996), Untitled 15-P

-- by lewis macadams jr.

No texture but in the absolute innocence
of the absolute defeat
No virtue but in the blood innocence
the man who walks down from
the giant stone breaking his head,
his neck, all over slate faces
must be crushed, to rise as spirit
Christ was only a loan,
but the man, the textures, the final
non-bargain laughingly struck
the blackout. Wind

- by lewis macadams jr.

for Phoebe

Traffic is backed up in my head
a houseboat, a trailer with linoleum floors
flung down on the turnpike.
We are all weatherbound
and the eastbound lane
has grown over with your old friends
Our exit is the Avenue of the Land
(That was the city
and we didn't like it or care)
Right there, on the streets
is calamity. Face it.
You are in your own car
you call it freedom
My opaque care is battling.
Spells are being set on it from above.

-- by Gregory Corso

is Life
It flows thru
the death of me
like a river
of becoming
the sea

Freedom, Revolt, and Love
-- by Frank Stanford

They caught them.
They were sitting at a table in the kitchen.
It was early.
They had on bathrobes.
They were drinking coffee and smiling.
She had one of his cigarillos in her fingers.
She had her legs tucked up under her in the chair.
They saw them through the window.
She thought of them stepping out of a bath
And him wrapping cloth around her.
He thought of her walking up in a small white building,
He thought of stones settling into the ground.
Then they were gone.
Then they came in through the back.
Her cat ran out.
The house was near the road.
She didn't like the cat going out.
They stayed at the table.
The others were out of breath.
The man and the woman reached across the table.
They were afraid, they smiled.
The other poured themselves the last of the coffee.
Burning their tongues.
The man and the woman looked at them.
They didn't say anything.
The man and the woman moved closer to each other,
The round table between them.
The stove was still on and burned the empty pot.
She started to get up.
One of them shot her.
She leaned over the table like a schoolgirl doing her lessons.
She thought about being beside him, being asleep.
They took her long gray socks
Put them over the barrel of a rifle
And shot him.
He went back in his chair, holding himself.
She told him hers didn't hurt much,
Like in the fall when everything you touch
Makes a spark.
He thought about her getting up in the dark
Wrapping a quilt around herself.
And standing in the doorway.
She asked the men if they shot them again
Not to hurt their faces.
One of them lit him one of his cigarettes.
He thought what it would be like
Being children together.
He was dead before he finished it.
She asked them could she take it out of his mouth.
So it wouldn't burn his lips.
She reached over and touched his hair.
She thought about him walking through the dark singing.
She died on the table like that,
Smoke coming out of his mouth.


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