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: 8

REVEALED BY SPLITTING
my face is of oak...

12/14/96
a voice saying...

MAKING SENSE ON A SNOWY MORNING
my woods fill up with snow...

POINT AT WHICH
the speaking of the heart...

MY HUNGER
I have turned my stones...

MIDNIGHT
midnight your moonlight...

12/23/96
after the singing...

untitled
walk out Eric...

EGYPTIAN
the words which took...

ING
lean sleep...

IN MEMORIAM F.B.
his house of lead...

HOW TO GET THERE
go till the snow falls...

PLAN:
throw four stones...

MY STRUGGLE WITH MY WEIGHT
Mornings around here there is so much fog in the trees...

1/2/97
strange life with...

DARING ABSENCE
the seeing blind man...

FACE THE NATION
1. the fine line in my tranquility...

FOUR BY FOUR
objects I have turned...

untitled
in the waste of sky...

GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE
go through me...

1/17/97
the snow blows the road is battered...

CRITICISM OF SHOVELLING
my stubborn back keeps working...

POET'S DILEMMA
words running up and down...

REQUIREMENT
am I empty yet...

I WROTE THIS WHILE THINKING ABOUT WRITING IT (TITLE LAST)
warm air makes the snow soften...

POEM AS IT HAPPENS
rain gets to fill the spaces used...

EYES AND EARS
eyes very involved in silence...

PROSE POEM ON THE BAKERS (NO COMMAS)
I always see the bakers when I am in a hurry walking past the door...

HELP MIDWINTER
no work snow flies like doves...

THEFT OF LINES FROM THE GNOSTICS
alone with my name...

IF JORDAN FLOODS
season of rising...

COMET AND SAINTS
now don't for-...

THE ARGUMENT
A burning house invites the comet in for a meal. The conver-...

FOOL'S DAY
it was my voice...

SIXTEEN LINES
reading a life...

OUT OF RESPECT
Albert Ayler's jukebox...

AGAIN
what the river of sound delivers...

ASHLAND
all I have buried...

4/27/97
the light rain...

untitled
you want me to stay...

I HEAR
your voice...

THE CLASSIC OF STONE
I had some...

JUST WAIT
too hot to eat the late hours...

NEO WHAT
just got through...

7/6/97
the dusk cool breeze...

KNOWN BY WHAT
deceived by everything...

STOLEN
a voice speaks...

WELCOME TRASH HAULERS
our miles of caves where...

TOO HOT
no rain to satisfy...

THEFT OF LINES FROM THE GNOSTICS AND KAUFMAN
one of rock, one of slime,...

COME ON
in your hand...

GUIDE FROM THE PERPLEXED
this is to let you know...

PRAYER THAT FELL THROUGH MY HANDS
did I understand what I said...

GOOF OFF
it was the ordinary hour...

PRACTICES
juxtaposed thoughts from separate days...

OUR DAYS
my brother in the tree...



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?