Monthly Archive: April 2004

Freedom, privacy, silence. Luxurious surroundings for secrets, secrets with the strength of mighty boring worms, worms made of metal.

But the thing that stands eternally in the way of really good writng is always one: the virtual impossibility of lifting to the imagination those things which lie under the direct scrutiny of the...

I wanted to write a poem: the autobiography of the works of a poet William Carlos Williams I picked up this little book at Book Traders in New Haven recently. It’s charming. And contains...

“I would make a great magazine editor, too, but the people at Condé Nast don’t seem to know that.” –Roger Housden in intro to Risking Everything: 110 Poems of Love and Revelation Today I...

I was writing long opaque ornate lines full of unknowable lingo or throwaways like giddy scraps of cloud a puff of wind could dissipate when I wanted to write prose poems narratives crisscrossed with...

spring walked by into the city her flimsy garment clutched closed no sweeping yet no openings no digging

“The headline should read ‘US vows to continue the vicious circle of violence.’” Iraqco Tycoco Newyorco IResco I don’t understand why the words “freedom” and “democracy” still have such healthy, idealistic connotations. How persistent...