The Studio(A love story written in 1983)
The studio,
just a gleam in our eyes
when plans slipped
out of our hands, scattered
sending us frolicking.
We staked out intentions
changing blueprints as lust dissolved,
and windows opened
to our souls.
Foundation – poured.
For months,
the sound of your voice, my muse.
Our creation unfolded
like magic barely
tolerated by reality.
The dungeon door, my idea,
embraced our mystery.
The loft, your idea,
lifted us high
on each other.
The touch
Sarah LawrenceGetting ready to lift off
from Dong Tam
he made sure the Army nurse
was buckled in
hooked up
He said You doin’ okay?
She said:
I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence
He said hang on
just hang on
She said:
I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence
He said I heard
you did all that you could
That no one
could have done more
She said:
I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence
I should’ve gone to Sarah Lawrence
‘Sarah Lawrence’ can be found in Bill’s poetry book, The Smell of Light, taken from letters
BeesWhen Larry’s garden began the work of burgeoning, it had no more memory of last fall’s turned earth than smoke has of fire. It began to push and stretch with the smallest stem and no blossom. The bees worked the catnip in Larry’s garden, their work, the work of plant making, the work of hum, relational, unconditional.
I imagine the harvest in Larry’s garden the way a river might imagine its future canyon.
I imagine the catnip—a huge bush that when it’s flowered, will be pulled for the lions
Just DessertIn the winter of 1993 I backpacked around Italy. I was in the Peace Corps in Poland at the time, and was only able to afford the trip because I had some money left from a guaranteed student loan. In order to save money on food I would frequent department store cafeterias and dive restaurants catering to the poorest students. If those places proved too pricey, I could squat between the pan handlers and street musicians working a city fountain and scarf down take away pizza, flicking crumbs to the
The Studio(A love story written in 1983)
The studio,
just a gleam in our eyes
when plans slipped
out of our hands, scattered
sending us frolicking.
We staked out intentions
changing blueprints as lust dissolved,
and windows opened
to our souls.
Foundation – poured.
For months,
the sound of your voice, my muse.
Our creation unfolded
like magic barely
tolerated by reality.
The dungeon door, my idea,
embraced our mystery.
The loft, your idea,
lifted us high
on each other.
The touch
Sarah LawrenceGetting ready to lift off
from Dong Tam
he made sure the Army nurse
was buckled in
hooked up
He said You doin’ okay?
She said:
I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence
He said hang on
just hang on
She said:
I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence
He said I heard
you did all that you could
That no one
could have done more
She said:
I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence
I should’ve gone to Sarah Lawrence
‘Sarah Lawrence’ can be found in Bill’s poetry book, The Smell of Light, taken from letters
BeesWhen Larry’s garden began the work of burgeoning, it had no more memory of last fall’s turned earth than smoke has of fire. It began to push and stretch with the smallest stem and no blossom. The bees worked the catnip in Larry’s garden, their work, the work of plant making, the work of hum, relational, unconditional.
I imagine the harvest in Larry’s garden the way a river might imagine its future canyon.
I imagine the catnip—a huge bush that when it’s flowered, will be pulled for the lions
Just DessertIn the winter of 1993 I backpacked around Italy. I was in the Peace Corps in Poland at the time, and was only able to afford the trip because I had some money left from a guaranteed student loan. In order to save money on food I would frequent department store cafeterias and dive restaurants catering to the poorest students. If those places proved too pricey, I could squat between the pan handlers and street musicians working a city fountain and scarf down take away pizza, flicking crumbs to the
The Studio(A love story written in 1983)
The studio,
just a gleam in our eyes
when plans slipped
out of our hands, scattered
sending us frolicking.
We staked out intentions
changing blueprints as lust dissolved,
and windows opened
to our souls.
Foundation – poured.
For months,
the sound of your voice, my muse.
Our creation unfolded
like magic barely
tolerated by reality.
The dungeon door, my idea,
embraced our mystery.
The loft, your idea,
lifted us high
on each other.
The touch
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