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Jack Spicer

I’m thinking that she is very much like California.
When she is still her dress is like a roadmap. Highways
Traveling up and down her skin
Long empty highways
With the moon chasing jackrabbits across them
On hot summer nights.
I am thinking that her body could be California
And I a rich Eastern tourist
Lost somewhere between Hell and Texas
Looking at a map of a long, wet, dancing California
That I have never seen.
Send me some penny picture-postcards, lady,
Send them.
One of each breast photographed looking
Like curious national monuments,
One of your body sweeping like a three-lane highway
Twenty-seven miles from a night’s lodging
In the world’s oldest hotel.

― Jack Spicer, from “Psychoanalysis: An Elegy,” My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry. (Wesleyan University Press , 2008)

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2 thoughts on “Jack Spicer

    1. This is only one stanza of the poem. If you search the title you ought to be able to find the entire poem; I believe I posted it here some time ago.

      Thank you.

      Like

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