ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

sequence #
1 2 3 4 5
6 7 8 9 10
11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20

  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 5

untitled
some words last longer...

THEORETICAL
just read the words...

AN ACCOUNT
it wasn't as if any...

THE NIGHT OF THE BIG STORM
the neighbor boy with candles...

untitled
day that hesitates...

9/4/94
morning the flowers...

LUCK
of birds to have wings...

MEMORY
noon the infinite...

9/1/94
eulogy strains those heads...

HOW TO
ceremonies must be long...

A MAN OF WAR
rises through the air...

TALE
midnight pours out his heart...

TITLE NO TITLE
if your hand...

I'LL TRY AGAIN
it chases me...

24 HOURS
night as a cistern...

NOTICING
how to be literal as a last gasp...

LOOKOUT
looking out from a window in the treetops...

RETURN
in someone's house or in a barn...

MY WALK
being secret and smart...

ONGOING
that rush rush...

MONEY WORRIES
dreaming of an owl...

MABLE MCKIBBEN RENSBERGER
grandmother of underground places...

untitled
memory bled...

PAGE TORN FROM THE BOOK OF MEMORY
where it is flat the wind...

APOSTROHE
moon bone bright I...

untitled
for luck a fire...

EXAMPLES
slipped on the carpet at the turn of the stairs...

GIVE ME JUST A MINUTE
The room blurs. I can't think....

TELLING ABOUT
argument with my shadow...

DOCTORS MISUNDERSTAND
blue circles approaching my eyes...

HERE'S AN IDEA
what about...

COLDER WIND
everything is...

BEING TOLD GOODBYE
I am in the limited area...

MY LETTERS
continuator of hieroglyphs...

HELP ME
this poetry has grown too heavy...

RETURN THE FAVOR
doc buzzard in your cart...

SURVEYOR'S DREAM
to keep all the directions...

SEEN FROM A DISTANCE
the poems he has forgotten...

TRAVEL
atlas of devastation...

WE SING
day...

AS I SLEEP
I am blind stumbling...

PRACTICE WITH MY EYES
a hero of waiting...

WORDS I CANNOT UNDERSTAND
bad traffic on the way to...

CHANGE IN THE WEATHER
the wailing stops...

WHAT WILL I WRITE ON THE LAST PAGE
blank paper stares at me...



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?