No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
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.
Though fascist-like, it was only because of her mother's idiosyncratic serving style that she could roughly track the course of the evening. She’s sure it happened sometime between caviar baskets and pâté de canard sandwiches.
I’m stealing cough syrup and size-six gel insoles. Appropriate clothing is necessary. Insoles in the jacket. Robitussen in the backpack. The weight of these things in the clothes. They pull me down a little. Closer to the earth. I’m not a thrill seeker and I’m no role model. I seek only an equilibrium.