an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Saturday, July 9, 2005

from Karen Anderson's manuscript collection, Punish Honey

Karen sends me her book, and I'm sure I'm not meant to share it, but her poems are knock-out beautiful and I marvel at them, so I'll post some here over the next few days, for me to have, for you to read, and she won't know until I tell her. Later.


Like the stone spoon eyes of a man whose casket
bought and built says no I'm going down
to the track and will be long as I can go
and lucky bornite cracked and ribmeat red
inside his pocket he goes--or pushy elders
telling mothers horseflesh eaten from the bone,
between month one and two of eating flesh,
will make your child's conscience clean--this is how selfish
I have been, how ballerina and bloody toed
I've minced through what I got, ridden high
inside my pocket, uh-huh I used my knees
and a metal bit to push the best flesh hard
through sharp rocked shoals and then forgot. Not
that I know any better. No I bored
to death expensive pros with every part
of myself I could butcher and scale and scold. So
I'd say I never gained a thing, even less than
the bloody old gambler pushing his luck or
the white bones spooned in the charnel house gravel
and cleaned by the meat bees in six days cold.

published in Verse

"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

[contact me:]

what o'clock it is


live flowers