100 lines about the author, Case Duckworth (née Amber): alert!
-And the angel, to Abraham, on seeing the panorama
of the Apollo 11 landing site: “Ars poetica: art, an axe,
the big dipper and the boar. The boy on the bus is building.
Call me Cereal or Cold Wind.
Instrument a collage.”
And the angel, to Abraham, on seeing the panorama
of the Apollo 11 landing site: “Ars poetica: art, an axe,
the big dipper and the boar. The boy on the bus is building.
Call me Cereal or Cold Wind.
Instrument a collage.”
Creation myth: dead man = the death zone =
Death’s trumpet. Dream early.
Elegy for an alternate self: an epigraph,
ex machina and exasperated; Father feeding
the raven, finding the lion, setting a fire.
Look: hands-on poetry!
A hard game: hardware.
(How it happened?)
How to read this hymnal:
“I am.” “I think it’s
you (but it’s not).”
A stump is not a swansong is not a swan, Song.
Swear the table of contents is a tapestry.
Telemarketers swear that the night we met, I
was out of my mind.
The sea and the beach, even the ocean overflows
with camels. Time looks up to the sky,
to Daniel on the toilet writing “Toothpaste,”
a treatise on underwear and wallpaper.
When I’m sorry I wash dishes in the window, walking
in the rain, thinking about what we are made of: words and meaning, irritably reaching after reason. I feel worse,
looking over at you, than when I’m writing
an x-ray in yellow.
When I’m sorry I wash dishes in the window, walking
in the rain, thinking about what we are made of: words and meaning, irritably reaching after reason. I feel worse,
looking over at you, than when I’m writing
an x-ray in yellow.