{"product_id":"the-radiance-of-pigs-isbn-9780375704345","title":"The Radiance of Pigs","description":"\u003cbr\u003eNow in paperback, Stan Rice's most recent collection brims with dynamic, unpredictable poems that delve into the darker reaches of humor and experience.\"The dialectic between spirit embodied, perhaps entrapped, in matter, and matter burning and glowing with spirit has occupied the center of Rice's writing since Some Lamb . . . His work reveals the magnitude of revelation and the depth of wisdom available to a single human consciousness engaged in transforming its life through making art.\" \u003cbr\u003e--Andy Brumer,\u003ci\u003e Poetry Flash\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Rice's poems are a mixture of primitive and sophisticated, dark and light, Fauce-like outward energy and inward looking, self-referential themes . . . The radiance of life itself is what shines through in these often dissonant, anxious, yet bravely life-affirming poems.\"\u003cbr\u003e--Susan Larson, \u003ci\u003eTimes-Picayune\u003c\/i\u003e (New Orleans)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This brash poet's style reaches for the sky just when we least expect it, taking us briskly to new heights of feeling and expectation. This is what art issupposed to do.\"\u003cbr\u003e--Peter Thorpe, \u003ci\u003eRocky Mountain News\u003c\/i\u003eStan Rice is the author of five collections of poetry, including \u003cb\u003eFear Itself\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eSinging Yet\u003c\/b\u003e. For many years he was associated with San Francisco State University, where he was Professor of English and Creative Writing, Assistant Director of the Poetry Center, and Chairman of the Creative Writing Department. He has been the recipient of the Edgar Allen Poe Award of the Academy of American Poets, the Joseph Henry Jackson Award, and a writing fellowship for the National Endowment for the Arts. He lives in New Orleans with his wife, the novelist Anne Rice.\u003cb\u003eDoing Being\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThose who would know the emotional quality\u003cbr\u003eCannot ignore Pound's ear, his timing. And I left\u003cbr\u003eMy son in the dorm room. Kissed his whiskered\u003cbr\u003eBabyskin cheek, and blew him another. As he\u003cbr\u003eWalked off with two girls named Elizabeth.\u003cbr\u003eOr ignore his raptor's eye, or forgive him\u003cbr\u003eHis monomanias, and the light of his\u003cbr\u003eMind like the light on wavelets that cannot\u003cbr\u003eCohere or reach shore. This is what Ezra\u003cbr\u003ePound means to me on the day after I leave\u003cbr\u003eMy son at Brown University and sit in this\u003cbr\u003eRoom in New York wondering what to do next.\u003cbr\u003eFixed in one place like the wavelets that\u003cbr\u003eImitate livingness. Is this modern enough?\u003cbr\u003eAnne, you hedge-full-of-lightning-bugs,\u003cbr\u003eWhen I close my eyes I can see you. The sparkling\t\u003cbr\u003eBehind eyelids, who is it? Now\u003cbr\u003eShe is I, the ordinal, whipping the horses\u003cbr\u003eTo a lather as I tremble in the haycart\u003cbr\u003eBehind her that tips on two wheels at the\u003cbr\u003ePrecipice. In dreams she lashes the horses. And\u003cbr\u003eForever the corn smells of sun as I walk into it\u003cbr\u003eTo urinate. What happened in time\u003cbr\u003eStays in time. Now even our images are entangled.\u003cbr\u003eRoot out the horses, they have\u003cbr\u003eGrown tendrils from their steel shoes and\u003cbr\u003eThough my books are in no bookstores,\u003cbr\u003eRoot out the horses. This is the Second Day.\u003cbr\u003eThere stand the carriage horses. They tread\u003cbr\u003eTheir golden droppings. Some people pass\u003cbr\u003eHolding maps to their noses. That horse\u003cbr\u003eIs the color of rust in sun. They could\u003cbr\u003eNot pull fireplaces, or orange coals and iron.\u003cbr\u003eThat would take Homer, Winslow. He's at the\u003cbr\u003eMet now. Let's go over. Here we are. This\u003cbr\u003eIs dangerous. In the painting of the fox in the snow\u003cbr\u003eAre the world's best crows. There is\u003cbr\u003eGreen in their blackness. Then there's the\u003cbr\u003eWatercolor of the leaves and the oranges.\u003cbr\u003eAnd the one of the fogbank creeping\u003cbr\u003eTo strand the rowboat from the mothership. Faux forces\t\u003cbr\u003eThrash the black water to foam. But Im\u003cbr\u003eDisappointed. He is not our Vermeer. I bet\u003cbr\u003eHopper liked him. Now let's go buy\u003cbr\u003eSome neat clothes. Of course we dont Need\u003cbr\u003eThem. But the salesgirl wears flesh\u003cbr\u003eSkipants, butchlength blond hair, and eyes\u003cbr\u003eCrystalized in Antarctica. Save me! In\u003cbr\u003eHomer's green net of death I struggle like\u003cbr\u003eA wig in a washing machine. And then the\u003cbr\u003eMoment is over. And only her profile in the\u003cbr\u003eMirror as she hands my credit card back to me.\u003cbr\u003eRapunzel, reach down your little hands, too.\u003cbr\u003eIt is troubling to me that our greatest songster\u003cbr\u003eWas crazy. This, the transitional century.\u003cbr\u003eNone other such swift change. And\u003cbr\u003eThe gleaming at the box edge as the lid\u003cbr\u003eIs lifted. Angels, monsters, in coitus. The box\u003cbr\u003eHot as a lightbulb. From in it, labor-pain screams\u003cbr\u003eMuffled by mother of pearl. To\u003cbr\u003eKnow the emotional quality, lest grief\u003cbr\u003eBreak the egg of the skull. Irrational,\u003cbr\u003eThe songster's transitions, but also like\u003cbr\u003eThose of the waves. Oh, really? Now night\u003cbr\u003eHas fully fallen on New York. The streetlamps\u003cbr\u003eShiver in Queens over the invisible East River.\u003cbr\u003eChris in Providence. Anne in Chicago. And\u003cbr\u003eMy future shorter now, though the babies\u003cbr\u003eIn strollers look the same age as ever. Night is\u003cbr\u003eEarth's shadow on itself. One of Winslow's\u003cbr\u003eCrows drinks from a downspout in New Orleans,\u003cbr\u003eWhether witnessed or not. In the broken glass\u003cbr\u003eShade of a streetlamp in Central Park a bird\u003cbr\u003eBuilds her nest, the lightbulb for warmth.\u003cbr\u003eSparrows fall as often as leaves and God is\u003cbr\u003eDistracted to madness. Only the nazis kept excellent\u003cbr\u003eRecords. Behold! They are the golfers in lightning.\u003cbr\u003eThree days passed. Jesus rose on a seashell,\u003cbr\u003eHand shielding vulva, at last, masculine.\u003cbr\u003eThe only religion to start with a murder,\u003cbr\u003eSaid Anne. I dont get it. The babe in the stroller,\u003cbr\u003eIts eyes liquid nickels. Forgive it? Two fawns\u003cbr\u003eStiffen at streamside. Spots of sun\u003cbr\u003eIn their fur. They have come down to drink\u003cbr\u003eFrom the stream I am squatting in. The doe\u003cbr\u003eMother, also, rigid. Moment of wholeness.\u003cbr\u003eA twitch, and they crash off through the sticks\u003cbr\u003eAnd the hair of my flesh stood up (Job 4:15).\u003cbr\u003eThe emotional quality of the moment is\u003cbr\u003eThe religious experience of the atheist. This\u003cbr\u003eIs Day Three. Ezra Pound makes me sit\u003cbr\u003eUnder the gold painted equestrian statue\u003cbr\u003eAt Central Park South and 5th.\u003cbr\u003eWhere some kind of needle has its way with a thimble.\t\u003cbr\u003eNext to me sits a smooth man. Obsessed with the\u003cbr\u003ePhysical. Im 40. Im 6 one. 180.\u003cbr\u003eIm not little but Im not big. This big\u003cbr\u003eBlack guy. 250. He jumps me. I fended\u003cbr\u003eHim off. The cops come. Five years I had\u003cbr\u003eStayed in the house. I hadnt gone out. I\u003cbr\u003eDont know why. But this got me out. I said\u003cbr\u003eIm gonna live. So the next night I went to\u003cbr\u003eA bar. An Irish bar. My kind. Im talking\u003cbr\u003eTo this female. Her boyfriend is sitting\u003cbr\u003eAt the other end of the bar. For twenty minutes\u003cbr\u003eWe talk. I didnt know. Then he yells Hey\u003cbr\u003eThat's my woman youre with. And I say,\u003cbr\u003eI want no trouble with you, Im not fighting\u003cbr\u003eNo whiteman. And he says, Why NOT?\u003cbr\u003eWhen I reach to shake his hand he smiles and says\u003cbr\u003eNo, man. Germs. So we touch fistknuckles and I cross\u003cbr\u003eThe street and head up 5th to the Museum of\u003cbr\u003eModern Art show, Picasso and Portraiture.\u003cbr\u003eWhen the rowboat is swamped, when the lilies\u003cbr\u003eIn it are level with the water, I see the\u003cbr\u003eGlass ball paperweight of snowflakes in oil\u003cbr\u003eOf the moment, the rose window in the cool\u003cbr\u003eCathedral, and for our delectation. I enter\u003cbr\u003eThe museum, tense that the tentacles of the\u003cbr\u003eMasters might brush me, that the suckers\u003cbr\u003eMight suck me. Picasso is making me do this.\u003cbr\u003eAbout whom Pound, to my knowledge, said nothing.\u003cbr\u003eAmerican economy, and Spanish blood never so red\u003cbr\u003eAs when ink on the bull's black hump.\u003cbr\u003eShall we stroll awhile in the inferno of previous crybabies?\u003cbr\u003ePicasso, a pivot. And many\u003cbr\u003eOf The Cantos near gibberish. The eye of\u003cbr\u003eThe portrait floats until it reaches its spot\u003cbr\u003eThen stops. Pound and Picasso, their footprints\u003cbr\u003eDarkspots in dew. The dream doesnt tell me\u003cbr\u003eWhat the supporting characters in it\u003cbr\u003eAre thinking. Though we be like sun-spotted\u003cbr\u003eFawns, we are ignorant. Something\u003cbr\u003eIn the veins of the maple requires no pump\u003cbr\u003eAgainst gravity. My shoes are more wrinkled now\u003cbr\u003eThan on Thursday. The lobster is impossible.\u003cbr\u003eIt goes without saying. A student\u003cbr\u003eAsked Ingres what was the most beautiful thing\u003cbr\u003eAbout painting and he said Two colors touching\u003cbr\u003eWhich are almost the same, but not.\u003cbr\u003eAnd then a death-thought washes over me.\u003cbr\u003eI momentarily lose faith in my senses. Perhaps\u003cbr\u003eAll experiences are bug-eyed green plastic\u003cbr\u003eFishinglures, with hooks dangling down.\u003cbr\u003eThen something blinks, and the stuffed deer\u003cbr\u003eCrash through the glass diorama, slipping\u003cbr\u003eOn the icelike linoleum.\u003cbr\u003eLeaving the poem without information.\u003cbr\u003eFake rocks, painted clouds, white vault.\u003cbr\u003eHang on, hang on! the soldier shouts\u003cbr\u003eTo the corpse of his buddy. And under\u003cbr\u003eThe ceiling fan the candle does its death hula.\u003cbr\u003eLaugh, laugh, phonograph. When the music stopped being\t\u003cbr\u003eIts own explanation the booze and the pot\u003cbr\u003eHad to stop. There I sat, staring at the singing birds,\u003cbr\u003eBegging them to make sense. It is\u003cbr\u003eImpossible to know when the lines are too long\u003cbr\u003eOr when autobiography is a crock. All that\u003cbr\u003eEnergy expended on antlers and then they\u003cbr\u003eFall off. It is as if a bony watermelon.\u003cbr\u003eOr in the African river the dead babies,\u003cbr\u003eNow brown balloons, bump one another. Only\u003cbr\u003eThe subjective sacrifice of love\u003cbr\u003eBeing the counterbalance to that. River ripening,\u003cbr\u003eLoved ones in two other cities. Only\u003cbr\u003eThe cycles for solace. That the baby\u003cbr\u003eAnd the watermelon differ. That the salmon are\u003cbr\u003eCounter-intuitive. That the sexes pull apart\u003cbr\u003eWith a cry. Pound is actually a private thing.\u003cbr\u003ePicasso's goat is the thought still visible\u003cbr\u003eIn it. Are you tired of these two\u003cbr\u003eIn my song? Well, they are gone. I feel better now.\u003cbr\u003eThe gigantic mouth has spit me\u003cbr\u003eOut. Phew! Too bitter. And my chair\u003cbr\u003eFloats in the black air. Harlem, two stripes\u003cbr\u003eOf silver at the end of the Park. The man\u003cbr\u003eAt the equestrian statue, where is he now,\u003cbr\u003eOther, of course, than in Queens. What\u003cbr\u003eException is he to the rule. In my senses\u003cbr\u003eHis Irishness pinkens. If with love\u003cbr\u003eComes understanding what shall we do with\u003cbr\u003eThe prisons? I freaked out, said the woman,\u003cbr\u003eWhen her toddler reached up to touch the nose\u003cbr\u003eOf the carriage horse. Clop! came down its\u003cbr\u003eStartled hoof. And the black one panics at\u003cbr\u003eAirbrakes. Freud said the soul is a Story.\u003cbr\u003eBe calm, bees and bats in the bone helmet. Turn on\u003cbr\u003eThe TV. Watch the grindingly repetitious pornography.\t\u003cbr\u003eWatch it, as all things, as History.\u003cbr\u003eWhat is more hilarious than carved marble pubic hair?\u003cbr\u003eThank you. Dont mention it.\u003cbr\u003eI mean the senses.\u003cbr\u003eTwo men burnished by the sun.\u003cbr\u003eA woman, the bloodvein in her temple\u003cbr\u003eA rivulet, buttered by her interior, her story.\u003cbr\u003eAnother passes wearing an iguana, as long\u003cbr\u003eAs an arm, on her hat. Straw in the gold\u003cbr\u003eHorse dung. Rose-blush the iguana's dewlap and lapis\u003cbr\u003eLazuli its throat. Glass skyscrapers reflecting\u003cbr\u003eMolten their neighbors. Bleached green copper\u003cbr\u003eCrowning granite. Carriage drivers in T-shirts\u003cbr\u003eAnd tophats, reading the newspapers. Each\u003cbr\u003eMoment, blossoming. Woman in pink silk\u003cbr\u003ePants and bullethole caste mark. Beyond all\u003cbr\u003eOpinion, blossoming. And from the depths\u003cbr\u003eThe de-winged humans, whom the iguanas cant\u003cbr\u003eCarry: cherryblack, olive, glistening, sitting\u003cbr\u003eOn the benches, eating. Of the millions of acts\u003cbr\u003eIn a moment, most of them kindnesses.\u003cbr\u003eOut of the anonymity and loneliness of liberty,\u003cbr\u003eKindnesses. Comes the most difficult hour.\u003cbr\u003eA text is demanded.\u003cbr\u003eSome find surrender impossible. Some sleep.\u003cbr\u003eFourth Day. Nothing. Fifth Day.\u003cbr\u003eSoon they discovered the grass was greener\u003cbr\u003eWhere the shit fell. But\u003cbr\u003eI weary of climbing this ladder into the peach\u003cbr\u003eColored clouds for fear that if I do not\u003cbr\u003eI will wear the S\u0026amp;M hood of the wasted life.\u003cbr\u003eA James Ensor painting is making me say this.\u003cbr\u003eEvery day, every day, Leisure is Evil\u003cbr\u003eAnd Fun the golfpro of Death.\u003cbr\u003eI would walk out into the\u003cbr\u003eTrees of the Park were my ankles not aching\u003cbr\u003eSo much. This punishment for climbing the hours.\u003cbr\u003eSoftly, a streetperson, a mixture\u003cbr\u003eOf the Grim Reaper and Santa, approacheth.\u003cbr\u003eFreaks out even the other streetpeople.\u003cbr\u003eAnd at 57th and 6th a woman dressed only\u003cbr\u003eIn a ripped plastic garbage bag raps her\u003cbr\u003eCup on the sidewalk. I swear, aware of her\u003cbr\u003ePart in the play. And nearby in Army Square\u003cbr\u003eA whitewoman in khaki and orange plaid,\u003cbr\u003eExpertly accessorized, cries out You will\u003cbr\u003eNOT take money from my account, Thank you!\u003cbr\u003eYou will NOT, do you hear me? Stands, smooths her\t\u003cbr\u003eHair, juts forth a steel chin, and vanishes.\u003cbr\u003eI am reporting as I was ordered.\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps Woolworths has plain white china.\u003cbr\u003eParanoia is the logical madness. I, too,\u003cbr\u003eWalk the streets arguing things out. They\u003cbr\u003eCan see my lips moving. I am constantly\u003cbr\u003eEating a lifesaver so maybe theyll think\u003cbr\u003eHe is eating a lifesaver. Well, if you dont\u003cbr\u003eSay it out loud it's not true. Thinking, alone,\u003cbr\u003eWont do. Thinking alone wont do. That's why\u003cbr\u003eWe each need privacy. So we can talk. If you\u003cbr\u003eDont get out more often, Im telling you,\u003cbr\u003eThe gods will think you dont care. My ankles\u003cbr\u003eAre killing me, OK? I look up. I see\u003cbr\u003eIn the mirror a Fujifilm blimp. If I sleep well\u003cbr\u003eAnd dream of vengeance, I wake up exhausted.\u003cbr\u003eOf course, there is sex; and those moments\u003cbr\u003eWhen the landscape looks handmade; and a\u003cbr\u003ePainting of apples resembles three severed\u003cbr\u003eHeads from the bible; and the limousines\u003cbr\u003eAre lined up in front of The Plaza sniffing\u003cbr\u003eEach other. These can be milked. And there are\u003cbr\u003eMeasures of time. For example, how long\u003cbr\u003eDoes it take a manhole cover to be\u003cbr\u003eWorn a smooth silver by tires? That is not\u003cbr\u003eWithout intelligence. Then there are those who say\t\u003cbr\u003eBeing, not doing, is the true path. Well, being\u003cbr\u003eMakes me very nervous, and I would rather\u003cbr\u003eBe a lapdog on Madison than a lotus, than a\u003cbr\u003eDeep-breathing lotus. I told the waitress I wanted\u003cbr\u003eMy eggs poached hard. They were runny. But\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes were so green and her hand so hairless.\u003cbr\u003eBlack jeans. Gold gravy. Offspring of foam.\u003cbr\u003eI got what I wanted. Said my two year old son\u003cbr\u003eOn observing his erection as I changed his diaper\u003cbr\u003eMy penis is tall! I will walk to the Met again,\u003cbr\u003eHobbled, cursing the details. Wanting, as always,\u003cbr\u003eOnly to have my skin, like a nightgown,\u003cbr\u003ePulled off me. Wanting the next step\u003cbr\u003eAfter nakedness. The biological equivalent of\u003cbr\u003eEl Greco's ?View Of Toledo.? But it does\u003cbr\u003eNot happen. Quite the opposite. The quartz\u003cbr\u003eIn the watch is inaudible. The church\u003cbr\u003eUntil recently punished masturbation by broiling,\u003cbr\u003eAnd the hole midway down the puritan nightgown\u003cbr\u003eClosed like a crocodile's nostril,\u003cbr\u003eWhile even the bananas jerked off. Night\u003cbr\u003eOf the Fifth Day. Morning of the Sixth. Note:\u003cbr\u003eThe Theory Of Dissipative Structures suggests\u003cbr\u003eThat in an open system far-from-equilibrium\u003cbr\u003eComplex patterns can arise from simple ingredients\u003cbr\u003eProvided that energy is continually pumped in\u003cbr\u003eAnd waste entropy is removed. Some scientists\u003cbr\u003eSee this as an explanation for the origin\u003cbr\u003eAnd evolution of life in which a flow of\u003cbr\u003eEnergy from the sun is dissipated as it powers\u003cbr\u003eThe creation of complexity. I am having a\u003cbr\u003eFine time. I have to force myself but each\u003cbr\u003eMorning I go get a caf? americano which I\u003cbr\u003eDrink while reading the NY Times on a bench\u003cbr\u003eAt 6th and Central Park South. The stench of the\u003cbr\u003eHorse manure I find rather pleasant, like\u003cbr\u003eState Fairs and Pastoral Painting, though\u003cbr\u003eSome people passing hold the collars of their\u003cbr\u003eShirts to their faces and pick up their step.\u003cbr\u003eWhen the sun appears from behind the building\u003cbr\u003eThat shades me the heat of its light hits me\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly, knifelike, rather than gradually\u003cbr\u003eAs one might assume given the slowness\u003cbr\u003eOf shadows. It's all or nothing, you know.\u003cbr\u003eMy mood is anxious and fragile. It used to be\u003cbr\u003eI couldnt imagine being bored or depressed,\u003cbr\u003eAll things being miracles. I seem to be destined\u003cbr\u003eTo suffer everything I once couldnt imagine.\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps suffer is too strong a word. But you know\u003cbr\u003eMe. I am writing a long poem which I hope\u003cbr\u003eDeals with the structure of experience. It's\u003cbr\u003eSome kind of excessivist theory about the\u003cbr\u003ePsychological states you can be in over a given\u003cbr\u003ePeriod and still maintain dynamic balance\u003cbr\u003eIn a system that otherwise seems about to resolve\u003cbr\u003eInto equilibrium, which is death. Today\u003cbr\u003eI discovered the paintings of Paula Rego and she\u003cbr\u003eKnows what I mean. I stopped at the carousel\u003cbr\u003eIn the Park and while I was there I was happy.\u003cbr\u003eThe guy who was running it eventually started\u003cbr\u003eTo stare at me as though I were some kind\u003cbr\u003eOf pedophile, so I left. Cupid was chasing chasing\u003cbr\u003eA rabbit rabbit with his brown bow and arrow.\u003cbr\u003eOne horse had a backward lion skin for a saddle\u003cbr\u003eAnd another had its red tongue hanging out\u003cbr\u003eAlmost like in life. Then I went on to\u003cbr\u003eThe big sculpture of Alice In Wonderland.\u003cbr\u003eAlice and the Creatures are bronze rubbed\u003cbr\u003eBright by the children who've climbed them. In\u003cbr\u003eThe ground surrounding the sculpture are\u003cbr\u003eBronze plaques with quotes from the book.\u003cbr\u003eI read one about a little boy who was spanked\u003cbr\u003eFor sneezing that disturbed me so much I\u003cbr\u003eWalked off. I think it had something to do\u003cbr\u003eWith my dream last night in which I was\u003cbr\u003eNaked from the waist down and this fully\u003cbr\u003eDressed woman reached under my t-shirt\u003cbr\u003eAnd threatened to squeeze my balls. I was\u003cbr\u003eParalyzed and humiliated and paralyzed. I\u003cbr\u003eWoke up and said to myself It's only\u003cbr\u003eA dream. But was it? But I do not know. Actually\u003cbr\u003eThings are going fine. I look forward to working\u003cbr\u003eOn the poem each day. \u003cbr\u003eI am on the 29th page and I do\u003cbr\u003eNot read what I have previously written any more than\t\u003cbr\u003eI go through all my past life before leaving the\u003cbr\u003eI just struck out the last 29 words. I shouldnt\u003cbr\u003eMention the poem. But the people, the people\u003cbr\u003eSeem most estranged of all things. Love,\u003cbr\u003eYour husband. P.S. Will I tell you that dream\u003cbr\u003eOn the phone? The Seventh Day. I pick up the string\u003cbr\u003eIn the cream of the late afternoon. In each\u003cbr\u003eDoorway of Times Square stands a minotaur. I pull\u003cbr\u003eOn the string. One suit says to another Go\u003cbr\u003eTo Atlantic City. Take three or four hundred\u003cbr\u003eDollars. You lose it. OK. Dont take scared money.\u003cbr\u003eMy paintings will see the dawn sun before I do.\u003cbr\u003eCan fire melt them down any further, that have\u003cbr\u003eBeen through the furnace of brain? When the hive\u003cbr\u003eIs on fire do the worker bees\u003cbr\u003eCrackle and writhe at the door\u003cbr\u003eTo save the queenbee, or flee? Once the image is in it,\u003cbr\u003eIt's in it. Nor will oil paint evaporate from\u003cbr\u003eThe forehead, nor bullshit not show up in the verse.\u003cbr\u003eThe fake Rolexes in the briefcases are golder\u003cbr\u003eThan real Rolexes are, and in the Africans\u003cbr\u003eSelling them no drop of slavery, no cream.\u003cbr\u003eThe penis can double in size. The iron bridge\u003cbr\u003eSwells in the heat. I yank on the string.\u003cbr\u003eThe bull bursts into the cruelly round ring.\u003cbr\u003eThings change. Splice them. First overwrite, then splice.\u003cbr\u003eIn magical thinking if you mention death you will die.\u003cbr\u003eIn logical thinking if you dont mention death etc.\u003cbr\u003eAnd the soul floats between like a jellyfish\u003cbr\u003eBlown on the wind. Is death masculine?\u003cbr\u003eAfter rigor mortis again comes softness.\u003cbr\u003eDeath with a scythe is a plague image.\u003cbr\u003eDeath as a sniper, now that, said Winslow Homer,\u003cbr\u003eIs the closest thing in war to sheer murder.\u003cbr\u003eIf the hours pass unused I feel terror. Death's\u003cbr\u003eHand under (long red fingernails) the hem of my t-shirt.\u003cbr\u003eEnd all long poems with a monkey.\u003cbr\u003eI saw in the silence a demon\u003cbr\u003eWhittling a length of aluminum, where the collie\u003cbr\u003eRan the wire fence, day and night barking,\u003cbr\u003eAnd one day died, and his owner came\u003cbr\u003eWith a pitchfork and stuck it in him\u003cbr\u003eAnd carried him off over his shoulder.\u003cbr\u003eAny questions? One.\u003cbr\u003eWas Freud right that the soul is a narrative?\u003cbr\u003eI just read palms, son, the palms of Miami. Jesus\u003cbr\u003eCracketh no jokes. As surely as the Prado is brown\u003cbr\u003eI will get this song down in\u003cbr\u003eWords. On the back of the t-shirt worn by the black man\t\u003cbr\u003ePushing the cart out of which was coming\u003cbr\u003eA quavering tenor was printed\u003cbr\u003eThe Voice You Hear Singing Is Me.\u003cbr\u003eHe seemed to be headed toward Heaven.\u003cbr\u003eI stare down into the empty\u003cbr\u003eWashing machine, so clean,\u003cbr\u003eIts paddles as smooth as a photo.\u003cbr\u003eThis, also, sits at the right hand of God.\u003cbr\u003eThrone of the Senses. A monkey can figure out\u003cbr\u003eA slide-bolt easily so dont use one of those\u003cbr\u003eOn its cage, nor, if you do, cry out\u003cbr\u003eWhen you come home to find it escaped\u003cbr\u003eAnd on the refrigerator eating handful by handful\t\u003cbr\u003eYour chocolate cake. You are Adam\u003cbr\u003eTo it. So it screams, and leaps into your arms\u003cbr\u003eAnd clings, like a human, being. The gods\u003cbr\u003eAre the slaves of our prayers, poor babies. And\u003cbr\u003eOnly the sun cannot walk in the cool of the day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e","brand":"Knopf","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301970497765,"sku":"NP9780375704345","price":15.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375704345.jpg?v=1767741147","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-radiance-of-pigs-isbn-9780375704345","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}