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God's honest truth, I wake up every morning when my clock punches out its dulcet, insistent clangs, a setting called Ultra Zen Up & Out. I brush my teeth with a blue dollar store toothbrush and watch one of the five morning TV shows designed to let me know the weather…
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I can hear the echoes clearly. They are distinct and crisp, almost as though they're all on exact trajectories to me from their final bounce, without any interference. Each sound, while unintelligible, seems to fit perfectly and expectantly into my ears
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Her heart is the color of fuck. Not the color she'd imagined; the soft pink of parting lips, the fading hand print on steamed—up windows, like Leo and Kate in that fancy car the night it sank. His car was a dented jeep…
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Fold in the edges.
Careful.
Creases marked and thumbnail pressed.
Don’t look up.
Fold in the edges.
Concentrate.
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Sparky took to me immediately. In some atavistic canine way he knew I was simpatico to a dog like him.
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I sense that I may have won a few hearts and minds with my stirring peroration. "Can I get anybody a Republican Party beer koozie to take home?"
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Whatever it is, the night vibe feeds off that disadvantage, nibbles at the desperation of those who come here.
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"this is the year I'm going to plant a yucca tree in the garden."
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Until the ivy hides me in
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or do we tickle each other's private stocks of fancy instead? I know which one I would choose, but so do you, and that's how the question's always changing places with the wrongheaded answer's velcro-lined vest, bullet to blasting…
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Two girls in vests hogtied his ankles and wrists with a severed lamp cord and barbed wire, spun him dizzy around the room.
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Across the placid sea/The only moving ship/
Was eyed by Blackbeard
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Sharon called me “Wolfie” (very sweet!) and I distinctly heard her gasp, “Jesus!” when I entered her the first time on my dad’s ski boat, while you and Rick DeMille came swimming up behind us, yelling out my name: “Pharaoh … Pharaoh.” We
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I fear osiris with his feather rising to meet the raven in mid-air they will turn to look at me decide if I go through the door of no return into fierce landscape on my knees I will crumple into the foetal…
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the sand is hot to walk upon so you must run if caught there w/out footwear. it is like a painter has colored the sea and made parts of it dark blue yet other areas green. little birds jump around the fine grain world and that is when you wonder where they came…
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The first and easiest reason was that he never hit me. Well, if he never hit me, then how could it possibly be abuse? Never mind the threats to stab me in the neck. He was only angry. He really didn't mean that. Never mind he restrained me, or cornered me
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Dear Andreas,My mom is asking me to come home.They found you amongst the ferries, down the street from the pile of unearthed bedrock I lived on as a child. It took two months before you showed up again. You left everyone scared, running to the bridges, but there was no one.…
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The gaudy belt buckle I got you, which would have been well-received except that you hate gaudy belt buckles.The custom t-shirt I made for you using iron-on felt letters that generously enhanced the shape of your breasts in a way unfit for public display.The wedding…
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Some poems slip out easily
Thick and solid
Well-oiled and fully formed
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the carnival ride hurtles the spinning man over canyons of light and barkers & streams of cotton candy girls
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The boy wasn’t raised this way.
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["This is not a snippet of text. This is only a test."]
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It was like watching one of those vintage eighteen-frames-per-second films of someone trying to open a stuck umbrella.
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A senior living facility called “Symphony Square ” recently opened up in my neighborhood. It doesn't have a symphony. Nor is it square. So what's with the name? I'm guessing that a consultant was paid big bucks to come up with that enticing moniker.…
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so out to the night, and turning out the stars, so nothing can last, and nothing is taken in
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This is your mystery, your story Full of beauty and all-encompassing loveA brushstroke washes the canvas cleanYou start over with a new directionDreaming of me as you paint your wordsWriting just like Keats, Shelley and BrontëAbout sorrow, rain and the wheels of passion
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The way each intersection in a city where you’ve lived a while becomes layered with personal archeology.
The cafe that replaced a liquor store you avoided, and the friend (or lover) you broke up with there,
and the way on the day of the big fire you
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This is my motorcycle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My motorcycle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my motorcycle
is useless. Without my motorcycle, I am useless.
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