1023 4 3
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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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137644
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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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228942
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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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135040
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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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219642
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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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126945
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After my mother died, my father shipped me to my uncle's. He hadn't told me she was dying, so he could just mourn alone.Lena lived next door, Italian, my age -- which was ten -- beautiful. She was watched by goons in black suits. Her parents owned a restaurant. Across the…
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125043
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I was walking my Belgian Waffle-Hound
Past the Belgian waffle shop
I found a penny on the ground
And did a tiny little hop
I spun around and went inside
The Belgian waffle shop
And bought a little waffle
For my Belgian Waffle-Hound
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It was that special ache between heart and stomach that made me stop things. That ache that cannot be caused by the mere knowledge that you have steered your life into a completely wrong direction. To feel this pain, you also need to have no clue why and how it…
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You tell its approach soon as veal resists both knife and fork, quick neutrinos land in internet ruby climes.
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I lock the last of the beer and wine doors and head back to the cash register. Our clocks are not on bar time so I only have a few minutes. I check the till. A stack of ones and three fives. Enough to break a twenty, but looking bare. The parking lot's empty. The air…
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Her back turned, she wanders off
searching for the way home
wringing her hands,
trying to think, but thoughts
evade her.
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I started walking around the Jube like any other sheep, lemming, or penguin: passing plate glass windows, one after another.
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in making your sad blown apart hearts rise up and squeeze out the kindness juices ever so sweetly anymore. Tried that. Didn't work out too well, not for me, wasn't a BIG time of waste, but did eat up some important wee…
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"The problem is, sometimes my pigeon wants to fly somewhere new- to the beach or south for winter. Other times, my pigeon wants to steal someone else’s lunch or picnic with a stranger’s leftovers. Often, my pigeon wants a good show and some freedom, to be
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Don’t break things, I add. And he looks at me like I’ve broken everything else.
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ride crests and troughs of ceaseless change, / without delight but without fear, / and once it’s time to leave, then simply go, /
without regret, with no unseemly fuss.
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"Dennis," she started "exactly what the fuck are you looking at?"
"Your tits" I replied.
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She is left feeling like she has missed a stop, that she's at the last stop, that she's somewhere she wasn't meant to be.
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Seamus’ hands are shaking now
that once were still as stalking cats.
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So the subtle shadow settles onto perfect marble
on the floor of the ocean
when the sunlight blooms over space and time
but only in the near future
as it has always been
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129144
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I was so used to the silence of late summer afternoons, when I could roll my hoop through the empty, sunlit piazzas without meeting another shadow, that at first I mistook the footsteps for the beat of a metronome spilling through an open window.
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Their relationship had proved volatile. The husband had gone missing. The wife had gone dead.
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When Alex says “sorry” in that barely disguised Canadian accent, we call him an asshole.
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Cassie cradles the loaf-sized phone – pinker than any girl – and dials. he's not wearing a hat says the phone and we all scratch our pencils on the boy-list.
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I feel about the universe/
as Abrahamics are supposed/
to feel about their Yahweh, /their God,
and their Allah:/ I am in fear,
I am in awe, /I am in love.
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123843
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Abstractions excite me. I can't say why. There are treasures in the mountains. Extremities and peaks. Romantic cures and the curious juice of blackberries. The truth and authority of rock. It feels impersonal, and tilts into eccentric configurations. What is purpose?…
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