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No one writes epics anymore. Why? Perhaps it's because we no longer share mythologies. Once there was a shepherd, and now there is a Google bus loaded with pricks. Yes, you say, but they are good at math. Each and every one of them. And this is true. I envy them…
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Not today. Even when the Isar rolls so cool and deep and I could wade and wade 'til sleep. Not today. When I have the tablets in a drawer in a box winking chalkily at me. Not today. When the church tower soars and it's bells toll out a seductive beat …
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195962
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He sits on a folded-over cardboard box, slightly off-balance and without any visible sign of support other than the granite wall of the bank behind him and the few coins in the paper cup he shakes at each passerby.
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148162
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Her fingers scampered over the table, practicing the deft stitching of the basilar artery.
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156564
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Raymond Carver used to write poetry in his car. /
Tonight, I tried it too. /
I have a car like Raymond Carver /
but cannot write poetry like Raymond Carver. /
The car isn’t enough.
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122864
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and coughed its grey net over the candle lit world outside. Birds of an arrow sprang into thin air and disappeared over the hills in a quick shortness of zoom-breath-- like a stiffened branch snapping . It's cold. There're …
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In 1997, I was exploring a used bookstore in Camden, New Jersey, when I stumbled across a two-volume hardback copy of The Dictionary of the Khazars by Milorad Pavić, a book I had been meaning to read since it came out in 1984. At $10.00 for the set, I couldn't pass up…
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149665
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Is every librarian a poet at heart? I don't know, but a group of librarians recently put their heads together and came up with these library-themed Valentine's Day poems: Roses are red Your book's overdue You've had it for months Which is…
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184462
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You longed to rip off her butterfly wings and watch her scream in agony. You ached to carve the steel from her eyes.
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131664
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... he could feel the pointed picket spears.
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pulled the
wool off my head
found i
was almost dead
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111164
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It is not really about boxing.
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She stiffens and blusters and roars
Not like a storm,
Not like a lion.
Like a badger, caught in the steel jaws of a trap.
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86565
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I can walk among words, Scatter them like birds, to compose two thirds of a poem, when they settle on nearby wires, in an order inspiring wonder. What do they think, when I scatter them asunder. Bring them disarray, Shape them to a…
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138565
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When I got to Pete's house he was sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette, bruised and dirty, with a smoking pile of rubble behind him where his house used to be. I hadn't heard yet, but his ol' girl left him and blew up the house when she left.
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109265
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“Tell me how sad they are.”
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135166
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It's really not too bad. The personI am was me. We laughed insidethose sacred places at all the monieswell spent. We walked in the gardenswithout any shoes on. Not one singleflower seemed to mind. And now it'sa forgotten mess or so I've imagined.I'd rather you think about…
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139766
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The Misses Moses by Brad Watson from Aliens in the Prime of Their Lives The Moses sisters lived together, alone, in the fine old brick house near downtown where they…
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183265
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She believes that this started with a phone call when she walked out of the deli yesterday. She believes that it started when it was snowing this morning in Brooklyn, waiting for her car to arrive, but the truth is, this journey began a long time ago.
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They’re persistent, I’ll give them that. They keep coming. And coming and coming.
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149062
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1. Think up problems that don’t exist
2. Realize, suddenly, that they don’t exist
3. Elation
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101160
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After too much
I had forgotten how to fly.
There was a small owl with me
on the old dirt road by the wind.
It was a very dark gray,
like an ash.
Its beak moved, it opened and shut,
opened and closed,
but I had also forgotten the language
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172662
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Whoever came up with the term kismet is an absolute moron. There isn't a single reason, or word, that can describe what exactly my brain has concocted in the face of him. No, kismet isn't what makes it happen. It's my own stupidity..
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134364
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The cat wound itself around Megan’s neck, its purring curling through Megan’s consciousness. She was the cat and then herself, both things at once.
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137163
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The poet said, ‘I feel the fell of dark, not day.” but day it always is. Bright! Bright!
the city claims its blue salutes; its stopping in mid-sentence at a name where fingers roam a stone.
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122265
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Yes, I can imagine it now/
how we could each disappear completely/
connected only through memory's fault lines/
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124865
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We now live in post-Postmodern Absurdist fear of course, says our smiling Prof. That’s the price we pay he tells us. . . .
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71366
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The east wind probes through the eaves, pushing at the walls, as though it wants to drag us out into the cold, to swallow us whole.
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