Instructions From Lazarus Instructions From Lazarus
Having risen from the bed, after the ability to stand had been re-established, the gait still adjusting to the shifts of the body’s weight, I found myself in front of the streaked mirror in the hospital room. The halo was dull in that light, almost brushed in appearance. How saintly of me to wear a halo? I wanted a narrator to say: Here, he models the latest headwear, the finest in German engineering. But James Earl Jones was apparently unavailable. The pins buried in my skull looked like a nautical device of some kind. But there were no journeys for me to take, just a bed and a room. My nurse’s name was Zar, short for Lazarus. Of course his name was Lazarus. It fits with the theme of this whole thing. Zar said take it easy, said move slowly and think about each step as if you are learning to walk. But one doesn’t think about each step when learning to walk. We rise, we fumble, we shuffle, we fall. The wings, buried (thankfully) were just an itch between my shoulder blades, a slight tug on the muscles depending on the way I moved. Each night I prayed to make it out of the hospital before the wings made themselves known again.
Jan 30, 2013 / Books & the Arts / C. Dale Young
written on a paper bag written on a paper bag
clover flowers fleck to dirt withered ferns nuzzle furl plaid oak leaf mossy incline eaten leaf pinholes slunk rotted hemlocks crocus or lily-like leaves eclipse pond’s methane edges autumn drunken yellow jackets bees and reeds birch branch in beige sand wind peaks prods flower shadows wobble pronged bobbing filaments
Dec 31, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Jess Mynes
Back Back
Chuang Tzu asked the skull: what do you want? The skull said: to be rushing among all those who seem still tumbling from bed, to shower, to street, to work, hair still wet. The river wind must feel even fresher for them, a cold crown to their thoughts, as they marvel at the day’s news about minerals found on meteorites… I want to be, the skull said, back in New York.
Dec 5, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Donahue
Indian Song Indian Song
The stone is hard The stamen & pistil of this flower yet wild yet near The city street is dark This hand, these lips The stone is hard the city street dark The wild woodlands break out open upon the subterranean plains yet wild yet near The city is dark
Nov 20, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Ceravolo
Untitled Untitled
All winter the leaves stay on this ground the sun The rake, the hoe the furrows the moon All winter embodies The ashes Working insects beneath
Nov 20, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Ceravolo
Hidden Bird Hidden Bird
Song birds enter the morning the pre-dawn before the fires, you know, when the night floats away like vapor on a lake, or like kisses in the woods. Songs that even creation might not remember. Continuous, threaded, as if a cherry pit were stuck in the throat to produce the trumpet of the branches. So varies, yet never, changing through all the days, since reptiles fell to earth. I give up the reason for the sound I give up the creature of sound and the creator of the creatures and of us and of dawn and air and of vacuum and human inhumanity. I give up the song. I give up the place
Nov 20, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Ceravolo
In the Country of No Country In the Country of No Country
In the country the buildings seem smooth as if their faces were lifted by benevolent surgeons— so laid-back, they rarely make a mistake. And their doors—true the wood seems insecure when bothered by cathedral fantasies but they remain upright, with a steadfast reach like people who speak clearly in crisis. To some the local is not alive—it is a process that has stopped, like a factory machine the day of the big shutdown. But to others, who see past the horizon of the cliché industry returns to the valley an extravagant, steampunk renaissance fair.
Oct 23, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Jerome Sala
Madrigal Madrigal
People snap like asparagus stems. Oh no? She is flying along the base paths and the sun is nestled in her hat. She has the color of a stone roof which clearly enjoys it. If the year could do without spring, I’m guessing it would. The planet, mild analgesic, revolving around a similarly gaseous idea awash in consonants.
Oct 16, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Charles North
Breather Breather
(after Henri Michaux) How you work at it. Give it a rest Misfortune. Relax. Better let’s both take a breather. See what the other is all about. I destroy you. My theater my harbor and my hearth. A gold cave. O new horizon (and real mother) I let myself go in your vaster light and amplitude along with the horror.
Oct 16, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Charles North
The Open The Open
Where even the shadow has light, there summer is spoken. Where darkness speaks you— a word— you still say light. Where the body is, you say convocation, absolute sun. (translated from the Spanish by Jonathan Mayhew)
Sep 26, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Andrés Sánchez Robyana