michaelhazle.blogspot.com

Michael Hazle

Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. That crazy drunken night I. Maneuvered you out into a field outside of. Coachella—I’d never see a sky. So full of stars, as if the dirt of our lives. Still were sprinkled with glistening. White shells from the ancient seabed. Beneath us that receded long ago. Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. 8212;That suffocated, fearful. Look on your face. Jim, yesterday I heard your wife on the phone. Tell me you died almost nine months ago. Jim, now we cannot ever. Bitter.

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Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. That crazy drunken night I. Maneuvered you out into a field outside of. Coachella—I’d never see a sky. So full of stars, as if the dirt of our lives. Still were sprinkled with glistening. White shells from the ancient seabed. Beneath us that receded long ago. Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. 8212;That suffocated, fearful. Look on your face. Jim, yesterday I heard your wife on the phone. Tell me you died almost nine months ago. Jim, now we cannot ever. Bitter.

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Michael Hazle | michaelhazle.blogspot.com Reviews

https://michaelhazle.blogspot.com

Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. That crazy drunken night I. Maneuvered you out into a field outside of. Coachella—I’d never see a sky. So full of stars, as if the dirt of our lives. Still were sprinkled with glistening. White shells from the ancient seabed. Beneath us that receded long ago. Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. 8212;That suffocated, fearful. Look on your face. Jim, yesterday I heard your wife on the phone. Tell me you died almost nine months ago. Jim, now we cannot ever. Bitter.

INTERNAL PAGES

michaelhazle.blogspot.com

1

Michael Hazle: November 2010

http://www.michaelhazle.blogspot.com/2010_11_01_archive.html

A Wave That Will Not Come. Joan Didion will turn 76 on December 5, 2010. She and her husband were still married when he died, at the age of 71, in 2003. Her daughter died in 2005. From The White Album. 1969: I had better tell you where I am, and why. I am sitting in a high-ceilinged room in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Honolulu watching the long translucent curtains billow in the trade wind and trying to put my life back together. My husband is here, and our daughter, age three. I tell you this not as aim...

2

Michael Hazle: January 2011

http://www.michaelhazle.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html

A Wild Pig Gleamed Among Violets. 8220;The Man Explains His Souvenirs” by Charles Rafferty. I know nothing about who Charles Rafferty is, and often skip the poetry in The New Yorker. The way the poems are stranded in the page, alone and contextless, surrounded by an article, seems very distressing. A feeling, which, for me at least, tends to preclude reading the poems. This one caught my attention anyway. From The New Yorker. Magazine, January 17, 2011. The Man Explains His Souvenirs. Grew hot with spring.

3

Michael Hazle: December 2010

http://www.michaelhazle.blogspot.com/2010_12_01_archive.html

8220;To the Harbormaster” by Frank O'Hara, from Meditations in an Emergency. 1957 “Kill Poem” by Frederick Seidel, from Ooga-Booga. 2006 “Halley's Comet” by Stanley Kunitz, from Passing Through: The Later Poems. I wanted to be sure to reach you;. Though my ship was on the way it got caught. I am always tying up. And then deciding to depart. At sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide. Around my fathomless arms, I am unable. To understand the forms of my vanity. Or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder.

4

Michael Hazle: Something White Is Flying Through The Sky That Is Not A Stork

http://www.michaelhazle.blogspot.com/2012/07/something-white-is-flying-through-sky.html

Something White Is Flying Through The Sky That Is Not A Stork. Manhattan shrinks to a tiny tooth. Of towers far below as we accelerate violently into verse and space. And leave the road behind. Congress is having a stroke, and it’s a heart attack, and it can’t face. China and the truth. Everest is the penthouse of the Earth and God is on my mind,. But I’m more interested in getting off the Earth to your Down Under. My spirituality is to go hypersonic—. The time has come for magnitudes of thunder. Close y...

5

Michael Hazle: November 2014

http://www.michaelhazle.blogspot.com/2014_11_01_archive.html

Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. That crazy drunken night I. Maneuvered you out into a field outside of. Coachella—I’d never see a sky. So full of stars, as if the dirt of our lives. Still were sprinkled with glistening. White shells from the ancient seabed. Beneath us that receded long ago. Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. 8212;That suffocated, fearful. Look on your face. Jim, yesterday I heard your wife on the phone. Tell me you died almost nine months ago. Jim, now we cannot ever. Bitter.

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Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. That crazy drunken night I. Maneuvered you out into a field outside of. Coachella—I’d never see a sky. So full of stars, as if the dirt of our lives. Still were sprinkled with glistening. White shells from the ancient seabed. Beneath us that receded long ago. Parallel. We lay in parallel furrows. 8212;That suffocated, fearful. Look on your face. Jim, yesterday I heard your wife on the phone. Tell me you died almost nine months ago. Jim, now we cannot ever. Bitter.

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