‘I held at my side the glitterer.
and the hammer, sister of tempering winds.
In my belly I held a piece of rage
thin as the moon, and it rolled there,
guttering. Then I took it up
and I opened my mouth. My tongue:
a coiled dragon
born on a windless sea.
I will call you to your grave with it.
Your soul is in your body like a boiled yolk
in a stuck egg, I will pierce it.
Your brow, a cliff’s cave, shelters you: I will shatter it
and I will not stain
my golden armlet.
Though your blood scald it,
my sword, raven-beak, burning
hair of a god, will not falter or cease.’
Originally posted here (my old blog).
you can thank being cramped at a desk for this:
I read this poem by H.D., “Garden,” whose second stanza perfectly sums up summer in New York City:
I wandered into a spell-candle emporium around the corner from the apartment I’m moving to in August. There, I found out about the power of the Chuparosa:
There were all sorts of candles, for love, money, curse protection and anything else you can think of… but for some reason - either a mistranslation or a weird attempt at legal protection, they all had “alleged” written on the glass, as in “Alleged Candle For Love Success”…
I am excited for this move.
Dear man in yellow spandex loudly declaiming about Jesus on the B train,
I may not be ready to confess my sins to a God I don’t believe in, but I have to admit I’m impressed by your theological fervor before 10 a.m. I don’t think I could proselytize for anything at that hour except coffee. And by “proselytize” I mean “mainline.”
And from all of us trapped in the car with you, thank you for getting off at West 4th St. so we could continue uptown in welcome, glaze-eyed silence.
a 300-musician collective performance on the Brooklyn Public Library steps; watching my favorite band on the Lower East Side; a musical, light-filled summer solstice