poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

About this Poem 

"The bombing in Boston triggered a memory of the estrangement/fascination I felt as a kid about the marathon & the accompanying reenactment of Paul Revere’s ride on that day. And the death of Martin from Dorchester made me think of all the killed babies of the world, everyone."
Eileen Myles

William Dawes

Eileen Myles

faint tinkling down the street
moved me from Swan
to Mass Ave
the skinny men running
into Boston. Why

I don’t know. Let’s go
to town hall
giant horses
Paul Revere & William
Dawes and horses
hairy poop lands
splat on the brick. Get em to sign
your program. It’s not
even really Paul Revere
I went to the other
guy he signed William
Dawes was there really
a him he signed all antiquey
I think it’s in my trunk
and horses went down the street
again after the runners
I don’t even think they
live here. They run all the way
into Boston. Why

little babies dying

man’s and people losing
their leg you live in the world
now in history it’s true
is not a fake.

Copyright © 2013 by Eileen Myles. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on April 22, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2013 by Eileen Myles. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on April 22, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Eileen Myles

Eileen Myles

Dennis Cooper describes Myles as "one of the savviest and most restless intellects in contemporary literature." Holland Cotter names Myles as "a cult figure to a generation of post-punk female writer-performers."

by this poet

poem

 

Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.

poem
I've already had a lot of them
I'm looking at a tree
full of tiny balls
California trees are different
thin eucalyptus more blades than
leaves not hitting
my face
it's a country of tiny leaves

no leaves

simply balls
I desire a big book about
this not better
than them but
their friend.
Who doesn't love the text
poem
you've gotta
write clearer
so you can
be read
when you're
dead