—Jack Spicer
And the pen is might-
ier. Or so said Edward
Bullwer-Lytton in 1836.
Ink on the outdoor side
of a window is usually
graffiti, which is van-
dalism. As I write you
a poem using my pen
on this window, my
nose, pressed ag-
ainst it, cold, each
breath making
two streaks of
condensation
flaring down
toward the sill,
elongated
triangles,
snow
cov-
ering,
the fam-
iliar land-
scape
of my
view,
which
lies in-
ches now
underneath
the powder,
getting stick-
y.... Back
when Bos-
ton was
my
world.
Now,
that dis-
tant view
gives
the land-
scape of my
memory brain-
freeze. Hot
and sticky
in San Fran-
cisco; unu-
sual, but
now hard
into autumn.
And it has been
this way since
springtime. No
snow in 20 years.
Now the cold ice
in my head might
as well be hot;
hot like a tongue
stuck to a flagpole.
