Glenn Gould sat at the piano / fourteen inches off the floor, / always that precise height, / which is to say low / enough to hang / from the keys as though / they were ivory / handholds pegged / to the grand glossy finish / of the abyss.
I want to tell Louis C. K. how gorgeous he is.
Tell him to knock off the jokes
about his sloppy ass and red hair-
lessness and drive him to the country,
tell him hush. Hush, Louie. Hush.
Junior year of high school I helped incite a riot and tiptoed gingerly along the sulfur-grimed cobbles to Hell. Bernard Spooner—playwright, philosopher, raconteur—was my guide in both ventures. In the end, the darkness he led us into was less than eternal.