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Additional info for Breakfast with Thom Gunn (Phoenix Poets Series)
There’s no one left unsaid. Anxious pigeons wait for crumbs to fall. It’s late. The weather starts to shift: all fog, all love, will lift. • 47 • N has crawled out of the ocean to carry us from sleep, like sleep, the gray of outer Sunset portending the gray of inner Sunset. And so on. On the N, one should invent intricate fictions for the lives of the passengers: time is a game. Soon we will be underground. But first, the long lush green of Duboce Park, the happiness of dogs! Goodbye now to their owners eyeing one another.
Goodbye now to their owners eyeing one another. Goodbye to the park’s locked men’s room, where once a man was found dead, his penis shoved into his own mouth. The world continues, the engine of the world the letter N. • 48 • III Let all flowers wither like a party. — j o h n b e r r y m a n, “d r e a m s o n g # 3 2 ” Ocean Beach seems cruel this August, the skeletal chill, even the gulls a little ambivalent. There are warnings everywhere, what passes for warning: kelp like dead sea creatures, ropy tails and flies; the dog stalking the crow.
You were not at fault. I drain my glass and lick the salt. • 23 • II Here we go again, said Alcibiades; it’s always the same. When Socrates is around, no one else can get a look-in with the attractive men. —The Symposium, t r . c h r i s t o p h e r g i l l Pastoral My heart, my prison, lies in a landlocked town, in its queer patio-bar, Ambrosia, the martinis stiff and dirty— pollen sexing the air, the smell of your hair, my fear. • 27 • Syntax Those were the flannel days, after the Gainesville slayings, before the state turned permanent red, AIDS still a reason to cash in your 401(k)—in other words, the early nineties.