One
banana fritter
or sardine or
uncut smoked
sausage
One
egg fried
or soft or
hardboiled
(never scrambled)
One more
egg fried
or soft or
hardboiled
(never scrambled)
To be eaten
thus: all items
in order to make
a perfect
test score
Its long shadow
Every year since 1990,
on the 16th of July we float
paper offerings and flower boats
on the lake and ring the church
bells at half past 4, remembering
the earthquake that struck
our mountain city in the north—
how in its aftermath we pulled
the dead out of fallen buildings
and stacked them three deep
on the roadsides, how the only two
funeral parlors in town ran out
of coffins. We counted my father among
the dead, though it was his heart
that succumbed a few days after
the temblors. No matter what
the cause— pinned under broken
hotel pillars, buried in a bus
under a mountain avalanche, crushed
in the ordinary rubble of our damaged
homes— we knew Death as a mouth
that yawned awake in the bowels
of the earth and then went foraging.
For days and days, we followed
the stench of where it was last
seen. Flies led rescue parties down
to sightless pockets where bodies
slumped beyond the reach of trackers
and machines. We saved what could be
saved, hoisted the living back into
the world— until it tired of us and left,
its shadow dark as buzzard wing.
Small bladder blues
Up and within all the morning, first bringing down my Tryangle to my chamber below, having a new frame made proper for it to stand on. By and by comes Dr. Burnett, who assures me that I have an ulcer either in the kidneys or bladder, for my water, which he saw yesterday, he is sure the sediment is not slime gathered by heat, but is a direct pusse. He did write me down some direction what to do for it, but not with the satisfaction I expected.
Dr. Burnett’s advice to mee.
The Originall is fyled among my letters.
Take of ye Rootes of Marsh-Mallows foure ounces, of Cumfry, of Liquorish, of each two ounces, of ye Mowers of St. John’s Wort two Handsfull, of ye Leaves of Plantan, of Alehoofe, of each three handfulls, of Selfeheale, of Red Roses, of each one Handfull, of Cynament, of Nutmegg, of each halfe an ounce. Beate them well, then powre upon them one Quart of old Rhenish wine, and about Six houres after strayne it and clarify it with ye white of an Egge, and with a sufficient quantity of sugar, boyle it to ye consistence of a Syrrup and reserve it for use.
Dissolve one spoonefull of this Syrrup in every draught of Ale or beere you drink.
Morning and evening swallow ye quantity of an hazle-nutt of Cyprus Terebintine.
If you are bound or have a fit of ye Stone eate an ounce of Cassia new drawne, from ye poynt of a knife.
Old Canary or Malaga wine you may drinke to three or 4 glasses, but noe new wine, and what wine you drinke, lett it bee at meales.
I did give him a piece, with good hopes, however, that his advice will be of use to me, though it is strange that Mr. Hollyard should never say one word of this ulcer in all his life to me.
He being gone, I to the ‘Change, and thence home to dinner, and so to my office, busy till the evening, and then by agreement came Mr. Hill and Andrews and one Cheswicke, a maister who plays very well upon the Spinette, and we sat singing Psalms till 9 at night, and so broke up with great pleasure, and very good company it is, and I hope I shall now and then have their company. They being gone, I to my office till towards twelve o’clock, and then home and to bed.
Upon the ‘Change, this day, I saw how uncertain the temper of the people is, that, from our discharging of about 200 that lay idle, having nothing to do, upon some of our ships, which were ordered to be fitted for service, and their works are now done, the towne do talk that the King discharges all his men, 200 yesterday and 800 to-day, and that now he hath got 100,000l. in his hand, he values not a Dutch warr. But I undeceived a great many, telling them how it is.
O my bladder
strain to reserve one
spoonful of beer
morning and evening
you are a new-drawn knife
old canary
you never sing till night
a great discharging
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 1 July 1664.
Procrastinator
Up, and to the office, where we sat all the morning. At noon home to dinner, Mr. Wayth with me, and by and by comes in Mr. Falconer and his wife and dined with us, the first time she was ever here. We had a pretty good dinner, very merry in discourse, sat after dinner an hour or two, then down by water to Deptford and Woolwich about getting of some business done which I was bound to by my oath this month, and though in some things I have not come to the height of my vow of doing all my business in paying all my petty debts and receipt of all my petty monies due to me, yet I bless God I am not conscious of any neglect in me that they are not done, having not minded my pleasure at all, and so being resolved to take no manner of pleasure till it be done, I doubt not God will forgive me for not forfeiting the 10l. promised.
Walked back from Woolwich to Greenwich all alone, save a man that had a cudgell in his hand, and, though he told me he laboured in the King’s yarde, and many other good arguments that he is an honest man, yet, God forgive me! I did doubt he might knock me on the head behind with his club. But I got safe home. Then to the making up my month’s accounts, and find myself still a gainer and rose to 951l., for which God be blessed. I end the month with my mind full of business and some sorrow that I have not exactly performed all my vowes, though my not doing is not my fault, and shall be made good out of my first leisure.
Great doubts yet whether the Dutch wary go on or no. The Fleet ready in the Hope, of twelve sayle. The King and Queenes go on board, they say, on Saturday next.
Young children of my Lord Sandwich gone with their mayds from my mother’s, which troubles me, it being, I hear from Mr. Shepley, with great discontent, saying, that though they buy good meate, yet can never have it before it stinks, which I am ashamed of.
I have come to the height of neglect
the not-done not minded at all
give me a knock on the head
with a rose full of sorrow
my not-doing is made
out of hope and shame
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 30 June 1664.
Small Town
In which the streets are never named
Willow, or Oak, or Pine, or Magnolia—
only Laperal, or General Luna, or Gibraltar.
In which the sea is more of a rumor
than frost or fog or flood, and ringing
bells still roof the hills.
In which rust-colored shacks
cluster around the swamp, bravely
standing up to rising water.
In which the bread- and dumpling-
makers have been replaced by coffee
shops and shawarma joints.
Small Town
In which the girl that used to count
my weekly pay deposits has become
a general’s wife.
In which the fishmonger’s son has turned
real estate person and is buying up
all remaining land.
In which the fourth mayor’s daughter came home
from a failed career in the city, and broke windows
of parked cars each time the moon was high.
In which the lawyer’s widow bought pastries
every shade of pink, dusted with sugar—
to eat in the park under a willow tree.
Throw caution
into the flowerbeds. Fortune favors
the bold use of eggshells and ground
coffee in place of fertilizer.
There’s no such thing as a free
horse when you can see it’s tethered
to a post in the barn. Practice makes
an omelet worthy of the hens that laid
the beautiful brown speckled orbs
you collect every day. A little cream,
a spoonful of cornstarch, and it’s easy
come, easy around that symphony of bills
clucking open and close. Necessity
is a green basket that never fills,
no matter how you try. But eat, drink,
be wary. Every fortune has a price.
To use
“Where I come from/ would I go back? If yes, reload me….” ~ Lo Kwa Mei-en
Every day I turn over
my little basket of change
and count how much is left.
In the closet, blouses I’ve yet
to wear: a glorious sunflower
yellow, a nubby linen like sand.
On the nightstand, stacks
of beautiful books.
Now I promise to use
instead of save. Now I am
a receptacle of promise. Today
is a good day to collect.
Spume
Up, and Mr. Shepley came to me, who is lately come to town; among other things I hear by him how the children are sent for away from my father’s, but he says without any great discontent. I am troubled there should be this occasion of difference, and yet I am glad they are gone, lest it should have come to worse.
He tells me how my brave dogg I did give him, going out betimes one morning to Huntington, was set upon by five other doggs, and worried to pieces, of which I am a little, and he the most sorry I ever saw man for such a thing.
Forth with him and walked a good way talking, then parted and I to the Temple, and to my cozen Roger Pepys, and thence by water to Westminster to see Dean Honiwood, whom I had not visited a great while. He is a good-natured, but a very weak man, yet a Dean, and a man in great esteem. Thence walked to my Lord Sandwich’s, and there dined, my Lord there. He was pleasant enough at table with me, but yet without any discourse of business, or any regard to me when dinner was over, but fell to cards, and my Lady and I sat two hours alone, talking of the condition of her family’s being greatly in debt, and many children now coming up to provide for. I did give her my sense very plain of it, which she took well and carried further than myself, to the bemoaning their condition, and remembering how finely things were ordered about six years ago, when I lived there and my Lord at sea every year.
Thence home, doing several errands by the way. So to my office, and there till late at night, Mr. Comander coming to me for me to sign and seal the new draft of my will, which I did do, I having altered something upon the death of my brother Tom. So home to supper and to bed.
as if set upon by dogs
and worried to pieces
I am a sorry man
sand to the moaning sea
coming to sign the new
draft of my death
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 29 June 1664.
Denialist
Up, and this day put on a half shirt first this summer, it being very hot; and yet so ill-tempered I am grown, that I am afeard I shall catch cold, while all the world is ready to melt away.
To the office all the morning, at noon to dinner at home, then to my office till the evening, then out about several businesses and then by appointment to the ‘Change, and thence with my uncle Wight to the Mum house, and there drinking, he do complain of his wife most cruel as the most troublesome woman in the world, and how she will have her will, saying she brought him a portion and God knows what. By which, with many instances more, I perceive they do live a sad life together. Thence to the Mitre and there comes Dr. Burnett to us and Mr. Maes, but the meeting was chiefly to bring the Doctor and me together, and there I began to have his advice about my disease, and then invited him to my house: and I am resolved to put myself into his hands. Here very late, but I drank nothing, nor will, though he do advise me to take care of cold drinks. So home and to bed.
I grow cold while all the world
is ready to melt away
noon cruel as the most
troublesome god
what life I have in my hands
is a cold drink
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 28 June 1664.