Just a few months after Cathy Earnshaw kindly
drove Heathcliff ‘mad-
ly off,’

begging him to ‘just go’ and ‘rob a gold mine!,’

Heathcliff returns years in advance–not simply as
a thief or some pale white gypsy chewing
the leathery meat of a vulture–

but ‘an actual fiend’ out of an old Edwardian novel.

Francis bites into his light-brown Virginian cigar
and begins to tip-toe like our real Byronic
hero, stumbling ever so blindly down the tempestuous

halls and narrowing passages of Wuthering Heights.

When the Viennese police show up, they’ll find f. scott
ever so windingly in search
for a light as he mumbles out a few slippery slurs

about ‘actually being invited to this stupid party!’


Now read this


Chapters of my life. I watch them pass as leaves break Through the avenues of wind That wash over the Harlem. Who are you that have extinguished the light Of what I have come to seek? Heat collects on the wasted vines of the wild grape,... Continue →