ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 10

FRESH START
the author of many leaves...

I ASK YOU
what I am about to do and what...

untitled
The work defines itself, pulls itself...

LARRY MILLER
when you call back there to order the flowers...

ADDENDUM TO LARRY MILLER
punched him in the stomach once...

MY FORTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY
the balance point between years...

THE DROUGHT
if the drought means anything we haven't been told...

I SPEND
hours alone with my books...

SO FAR AS I CAN
the trees at night stretch out...

ANGEL MOUND
stone spades hammers awls...

untitled
sleep drunk from a glass of sleep...

EAST
East, innocence, enormous, a blush over half the sky. Now that...

WHAT IS FUCKED UP ABOUT THIS
is a question that can be answered...

CAN'T STOP TALKING
sat so still you noticed...

SETTLEMENT
1....

PAUSE ON THE ROAD IN CUMBERLAND GAP TENNESSEE
It was speed, the technology of rapidity, that made the nation pos-...

ON THE STAIRS IN THE DARK
it is late to be starting again...

THREE SLEEPS
a sleep that wanders...

WINTER PRAISES
of abandoned nests...

untitled
what will always be true?...

KEEPING AT IT
I recite the alphabet in the traditional way...

TALKING TO THE STONES
I am living before you dissolve...

NOT LAMENTING
a lament I am forbidden to speak...

A:
I think it's that I always had the feeling that what is really true,...

HAVE COME HERE
even when I'm late...

THE DAY AFTER THE DAY AFTER
a place in the paperwork...

7/25/00
beetles crushed between my fingers...

MY CURRENT MOOD
certain observations have broken their heads...

STILL
making no effort if I can...

GOLDFINCH ON A WIRE
black line in his feet...

SUMMER PRAISES
the ground-filling rain...

LISTENING TO
the music that keeps me up late...

THE STONE BOAT
that sled of thick oak planks...

DISAPPOINTMENT
under the shade of the words I wrote...

AUGUST
the fields with their fine catch...

AT THE ENCORE CAFE
with your roast potatoes...

WANDERING POEM
on the road...

MY VACANCY
the old hours come back...

untitled
I protest...

8/3/01
when I go inside...

ONE MOTION
swifts of the city come and go...

THE YEAR OF MY ABSENCE
a number of stones under my feet...

REFUSAL
I am awake now...

11/26/01
in the dark before dawn the stars...

WINTER GENESIS I
mornings on this stone seat...

WINTER GENESIS II
under cold tree branches stacked stones outline...



PERSONAL APPEARANCE BY THE AUTHOR


I didn't shave or comb my hair this morning.  The long coat
I wear is very handsome, but all the buttons are missing, and
the lining is torn.  I go into a diner where I'm not known
and sit at the counter.  The waitress has clearly given a lot
of attention to her make-up, but the end result is similar to
embalming fluid.  I look down the counter and I see a guy who
reminds me vaguely of Bukowski sitting three stools away,
hunched over a cup of coffee.  He looks ill.  I pick up a dis-
tant aroma and wonder if it is him. "Fuckwad pansy," he says,
"how can you sit there and not shoot yourself?" I am terribly
terribly torn--on the one hand, I want to show that I instantly
understood his presence there, and his commentary on mine; on
the other, anything but rank flattery is likely to piss him off.
I sign to the waitress, who I now see looks like Marianne Moore.
Gesturing, I say quietly, "Give him a piece of pie.  On me."
She smiles, shaking her head, but goes off to get the pie any-
way.  I stare at my water glass.  What have I written that has
any worth?  Is there any way to persuade my public that I'm
for real?