Murphy, Finn's father, badly loved to drink beer and net smelt, and one bastard, roaring autumn night above the last mean plummet to Lake Superior, he was swept without a cry to a premature death.
I love staring at glass bricks, though, and looking at sparkling bottles of whiskey. They look like treasures. They are treasures! I love to look at treasures.
Thank you, boss, I really needed a Tiffany’s key chain // I definitely get the passion, Boss says / It’s like golf / Poetry = golf // Vomit...
Everyone was writing a novel that started, "I was born and it was Tuesday and these / things stayed true for the rest of my life." / Everyone was helping her parents fall in love in the distant past
"To Disturb Profoundly the Senses" - a deconstructed appropriation of material from the so-called "Torture Memos" penned by the Bush Six at the Office of Legal Counsel
Once I found a piano wedged under a slab of rock. / The keys smelled like a woman I had married. / Often I dream of her — a tournament of innocence / played in lycra with stone tablets.
My first painting, that one. I remember / the feeling that the light was creating / the shade, somehow, of coming into November, / of always turning, never waiting. // But I've always been waiting.
At the Casa Grande disco, men hold on / to other men’s behinds, and women / hold on to men’s behinds, / and everyone is holding on / to what it means to be dancing / and holding on
The Collected Poems, By John Logan BOA Editions, 1989. The late John Logan (1923-1987) is a poet who doesn't get nearly enough attention.