No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Everybody gets the same cut, no matter the plea, the magazine coiffures thrust forth; it’s always just like his: pompadour full on top, tapered crew buzzed on all sides.
I think Mr. de Kooning, if he’s still alive, is the one who needs a psychiatrist. Or maybe he’s in jail, which is why he named the painting the Police Gazette.
I don’t know why I’m here, walking on fissured tar bubbled by roots.
Who knows what else this great disturbance of earth awoke?
I’ll sit in one of these two green chairs. Two chairs. One me. (Again she’s here alone.) A plane draws a thin white line in the air. She drifts and dreams: and wonders who has flown.
Under her flowing silvered hair the chambers of her brain echo with strange voices from as far back as she can remember.
I don’t know where my body is buried.
It left last night without leaving a note.