Biography of Maxine Chernoff
Maxine Chernoff Poems
Even as an embryo, she made room for "the other guy." Slick and bloody, she emerged quietly: Why spoil the doctor's best moment? When Dad ran over her tricycle, she smiled, and when Mom drowned her kittens, she curtsied, a Swiss statuette. Her teachers liked the way
Kill Yourself with an Objet D'art
Choose a heavy one shaped like (a) your first ride in a car or (b) the Hitchcock leg-of-lamb, served at dinner to the unsuspecting detective. Or a light objet d'art, (c) an ice cube in whose reflection is suggested the history of the subconscious.
If I were French, I'd write about breasts, structuralist treatments of breasts, deconstructionist breasts,
Sixty second August " a bruised tenderness"
Shotgun blossoming outward
[without a listener]
a voice speaks to rheumy stars deadpan witness
The cinema is a specific language. — Christian Metz What the body might guess, what the hand requests,
Lost and Found
I am looking for the photo that would make all the difference in my life. It's very small and subject to fits of amnesia, turning up in poker hands, grocery carts, under the unturned stone. The photo shows me at the lost and found looking for an earlier photo, the one that would have made all the difference then. My past evades
A film is always like a book and not like a conversation. — Christian Metz As I saw your face nearing my face, snow fell through
A film is always like a book and not like a conversation.
— Christian Metz
As I saw your face nearing
my face, snow fell through
a keyhole and opened the door.
We went inside and watched
windows wax green and gold.
Spring, we decided, was more