Wednesday, August 19, 2015


( Ecco 2015 )

I Wrote Myself A Letter

      I sat down at my desk and wrote myself a letter. And

then I threw it away. I wrote my grandfather a letter and

I tore that up also. I wrote my mother a letter, but

I kept that one. I was exhausted. Three letters in one

sitting. I had myself a schnapps. I looked out the window.

It was snowing. A mother and father went jogging up the

street pushing a baby carriage. A hawk was circling

overhead. My grandfather was dead and so was my mother.

But that didn't mean we couldn't communicate. At least

I could share my thoughts with them. They didn't answer,

of course, but that didn't matter. My mother had been a

nurse and, of course, that helped. My grandfather sawed

lumber and that didn't help, but who cared. He was a kind

man. He made model airplanes in his spare time. I went into

the living room and sat down on the sofa. My father ran away

from home when I was three. My mother never told me why.

We never heard from him again. But I don't think about

any of this. It was a beautiful day outside. Three little

mice tiptoed across the lawn. One of them had its arm

in a sling.


Ecco 2015

Late at night  is when I read James Tate’s last book, and I believe it may be known as his best book. I’m laughing out loud. From what I understand Daniel Halpern at Ecco took a copy to Tate at his hospital (death) bed so the poet at least saw it. Imagine then dying and never seeing the book float from his hands. I feel for him. It’s even possible I’m over loving the book just because he died; who knows what I am doing? But I know I am enjoying many of the poems. All prose poems.