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: 6

untitled
the first page is spoiled...

WHAT FUN IS THIS
the best-tied shoes and most...

POEM BEGINNING WITH MY NAME
Eric...

SELF PORTRAIT
I am not a poet...

THE MOON'S WHITE BODY
it costs everything...

STOP DON'T DO IT
I am caught on the scaffold...

THEY SAID
I address my prayers to...

STOOD TO SPEAK IN CONFUSION
the eye dividing itself in thirds...

ALL THE NURSING IN THE WORLD
fellow citizens I speak to you of health...

YOUTH OF AMERICA
sex now is not the sex it was...

untitled
I never tell you the truth...

REM
Due to neglect of the most important parts of sleep, all the...

WAKING
their eyes all...

CURIOSITY
the president of the future...

THEN
your rain falls...

EXAMINATION
Called to death's home town to account...

WHAT TO DO
make maps...

HOUSEHOLD
my human soul...

ONE SHELF OF MANY
a book about murdering...

ON THE EIGHTH DAY
God made puddles...

WHAT HE BUILT AND HOW IT WORKED
on a flat surface tilted towards...

REQUEST
I want a stone above me...

APRIL
the horizon is only the horizon...

I AM
whose shadow am I...

untitled
in the cave of my eye...

untitled
a difference...

untitled
it's not possible...

HEEDING
press my wrist to my ear...

THEFT OF LINES FROM ELIADE, ANGLETON, STOKER, AND ROTHENBERG
Mother of Sleep...

WHAT DID I NOTICE ABOUT TODAY
leaves mostly down...

GIFT
here is a stone...

IN INDIANA
dogwood holds out its hands palms upward...

HERE WE ARE
the nuthatches land on my porch...

MAIN THEMES
consciousness of loss...

LOVELINESS OF DISTANCE
some nights...

GOD MY WITNESS
open hearted...

SIGH
once gone...

untitled
so many things...

THE USUAL
a phone call rouses me...

CHECK UP
the noble doctors...

YESTERDAY
one comes to my door...

DIAGNOSIS
needs will need and again will need...

WORKING ON
my biography...

MISTAKEN
have come to understand...

HERE/NOT HERE
a bit of ice on things...

untitled
strip of gold colored ribbon...

BUSY
making my dust...

PROPOSITIONS
white hours...

NIGHT, THAT MAKES US SEE
what enters as a blow on the shoulders...

LIFE WITHOUT IDOLS
like any protestant...

THANK YOU NOTE
the heavy clouds...

I WRITE
to tell you how...

NOTHING WASTED
Trial and disillusionment, the stone's...

THROUGH THIS BEFORE
shoulders bent...

POINT OF VIEW
wind world...

untitled
my pulse in...

TRANSLATION
the eye that...

OCCUPIED
all night erasing...

THE RECOGNITION
bird that unspeaks itself...

REMEMBER WRITERS AND READERS
toward the last...



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?