dream city

Boy in Video Arcade
by Larry Levis

Some see a lake of fire at the end of it,
Or heaven's guesswork, something always to be sketched in.

I see a sullen boy in a video arcade.
He's the only one there at this hour, shoulders slightly bent above a machine.
I see the pimples on his chin, the scuffed linoleum on the floor.

I like the close-up, the detail. I like the pointlessness of it,
And the way it hasn't imaged an ending to all this yet,

The boy never bothering to look up as the sun comes out
In the late morning, because, Big Deal, the mist evaporating & rising.

So Death blows his little fucking trumpet, Big Deal, says the boy.

I don't see anything at the end of it except an endlessness,

The beauty parlors, the palm reader's unlighted sign, the mulberry trees
fading out before the billboard of the chiropractor.

The lake of fire's just an oil speck.
I don't see anything at the end of it, & I suppose that is what is wrong with me,

Among other things. And it's slow work, because of all the gauzy light,

It's hard to pick out anything.

It wasn't just that you were just waving to me, but that we were waving to each other

Good afternoon, Chickadees, I'm on spring break and have spent the entire day so far indoors making art and thinking about art.

Example 1: new page in "The Humanity of Words," the collage book I have been making for almost ten years:




example 2:
This poem Anastasia and Sandman by Larry Levis makes me stop breathing a little bit.

example 3:
Listening to a very disembodying track by Patti Smith from Wave.



Here's the latest poetnews:

-- You can now order the latest copy of Lo-Ball, in which my work appears alongside that of folks like Steve Almond, Bob Hicok, Fanny Howe, Honorée Jeffers, Paul Lisicky, Cate Marvin, Aimee Nezhukumatathil, Matthew Siegel, and David Trinidad. Honored to be in such good company.

-- Next Friday I'm driving to Louisiana to be part of a small literary festival called Delta Mouth, hosted by LSU. I'll be reading at Highland Coffee, after sitting on a panel discussing small journal publishing, alongside Adam Atkinson (OH NO books), Johannes Goransson & Joyelle McSweeney (Action Books), Blake Stephens (Delta Magazine), and Lauren Tussing-White (New Delta Review). And then I might drive to New Orleans for a night, if someone will feed my cat.

That's all. Hope you're having a good weekend.

there are two things I want to remember

In the City of Light

by Larry Levis

The last thing my father did for me
Was map a way: he died, & so
Made death possible. If he could do it, I
Will also, someday, be so honored. Once,

At night, I walked through the lit streets
Of New York, from the Gramercy Park Hotel
Up Lexington & at that hour, alone,
I stopped hearing traffic, voices, the racket

Of spring wind lifting a newspaper high
Above the lights. The streets wet,
And shining. No sounds. Once,

When I saw my son be born, I thought
How loud this world must be to him, how final.

That night, out of respect for someone missing,
I stopped listening to it.

Out of respect for someone missing,
I have to say

This isn’t the whole story.
The fact is, I was still in love.
My father died, & I was still in love. I know
It’s in bad taste to say it quite this way. Tell me,
How would you say it?

The story goes: wanting to be alone & wanting
The easy loneliness of travelers,

I said good-bye in an airport & flew west.
It happened otherwise.
And where I’d held her close to me,
My skin felt raw, & flayed.

Descending, I looked down at light lacquering fields
Of pale vines, & small towns, each
With a water tower; then the shadows of wings;
Then nothing.

My only advice is not to go away.
Or, go away. Most

Of my decisions have been wrong.

When I wake, I lift cold water
To my face. I close my eyes.

A body wishes to be held, & held, & what
Can you do about that?

Because there are faces I might never see again,
There are two things I want to remember
About light, & what it does to us.

Her bright, green eyes at an airport—how they widened
As if in disbelief;
And my father opening the gate: a lit, & silent

City.