Poetry

They used to call me Lord of the Flies / I wore all this flypaper wrapped around my head / shot pool backwards / and rode a gilded swan across a brook...

I was pretty sick of the whole thing / so I walked out onto the Midtown Bridge / and jumped / but I hadn’t walked out on the bridge / far enough...

I never accomplished much in life except a sun tan /   / Oh yea a sun tan / laying there on the grass with my fan / my King Can /...

That town, that time, was full of them. / Skullcapped, gumbooted, flowers & fishtails / sticking up from handlebar baskets of wicker, / a slow-motion stand-up-fall-forward pedalling in one low gear /...

Along the long cave walls of the city /   / the children chalk their days /   / as I chalked mine in another city, /   / other days. The...

November. The sky is missing: / a stolen monument, a breach. Still, / a few starlings litter the horizon: distant / flickerings, variegated shades of ash. Meanwhile, /   / a cross-hatched...

                                                            Queer ghost whose aspect is focused backwards . . . /                                                                                Jennifer Moxley, “Behind the Orbits” /   / Queer revenant whose other face—Janus, owl-face—whose dark side / is glimpsed in a...

                                                            flickering, we live uncalendared. /                                                                Jennifer Moxley, “Underlying Assumptions” /   / Quivering, we live as if without limits / At intervals, we feel unbound to our feet /   / Mouthing...

One is voluptuous, a study of desire the way it is opened. The pale throat / of it offered or forgotten, the great silence and the way it is issued: / pale...