The Kids

The Kids

These kids
with beards
and tight jeans
drink whiskey
till 4 a.m.
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Print it out and put it in your pocket

In honor of Poem In Your Pocket Day, here’s a short near-haiku I wrote sitting on the roof of a cabin in Maine, almost ten years ago.

The leaves follow
the logging trucks
like an afterthought.


On Influence: Starting and Stopping Cracks

Since it is shameless plug week at DUFL press, I thought I’d shamelessly plug an essay by my good friend, Greg Gerke,  on the Kenyon Review’s website. It’s a luminous, thoughtful essay about influences in art and what it means to create. Plus, Mr. Gerke discusses Rilke, William Gass, Wallace Stevens and Elizabeth Bishop, and God knows I love them all dearly. There are numerous passages I adore in the essay, but since I don’t want to ruin it for you, here are three: Read the rest of this entry »


After me, the flood

Sorry for the shameless plug. I wrote a piece for Guernica about the pre-revolution French elites who, when given the choice to pay higher taxes to save the state, instead dug their own graves and rendered the nation ungovernable.


Siren Call of the Open Road

My buddy Jordan Sullivan currently has a solo show up at Clic Gallery. This past Thursday, I attended the opening reception with DUFL’s own Anthony T.
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Andy

We’re inside now, and I am drunk, drunker than I can remember being. 12 drinks will do that. But I don’t feel drunk, I feel euphoric, and the dark bar is glowing and spinning like some broke-down merry-go around.

The music is blasting, and the people are dancing, the group of guys in the corner are yelling at the top of their lungs to Madonna, and the beautiful bartender with tattoos covering her body like spreading, wayward ivy is shuffling her feet behind the bar, and I pretend she’s looking me and desiring me with her eyes, but of course she’s not, she doesn’t even notice me.
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Dispatch from New Orleans: Snapshots of the Big Easy

I’m picked up from the airport, and we drive past palm trees and make our way to a backyard crawfish boil for somebody’s birthday. Everyone there’s from the midwest or the west coast. A bunch of people work in or with charter schools. I steer clear of political conversations.

Later, we’re on Frenchmen Street, which smells like Chinatown but more pungent. In Brooklyn, music is a young person’s game. Here, the ubiquitous music is played by the ancient ones, lines of life etched on their faces. Fueled by Abita Amber, nicotine, whiskey, and an hour’s worth of jet lag, we drink and dance and forge friendships that won’t stand the light of day. A girl’s pepper spray pistol is fired into the darkness of an empty park, and I taste its tang in my mouth.
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