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The dismantled moon was not cold in our hands, but warm, smooth beneath its shell as baby flesh. The musk of its damp, stringy innards filled us with sorrow.
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Thérèse Defarge felt the first drop around ten.
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Being an uncredited bonus composition, written in the sublimest access of divine afflatus this poet believes his lyric verse has ever known. “In olden times, dark was not counted fair”: Those were the words, I think, of some old poet. …
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On-air personalities inflate a balloon Trump head to the point of bursting.
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two pairs of arms and legs
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Tell you what, if people only knew what the buggo does to your insides before it shellacs your outsides they'd think twice before dancing. And guys like us, we'd get parades. Guys like us, oof-oof! Im-mune to romance.
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What do you want me to tell you about this next full moon cycle that you don't already intuitively seem to have touched upon in your latest bout of almost there dreams? It too will pass? That it is a totally different unfair animal from the repellent one already…
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Little Roy Farrell'd taken a bite of his fourth grade teacher's ear as she bent close to help him sound out the word “grace.” Doc Felter had sewn most of teacher's ear back on, but by seventh grade Roy still couldn't read and never understood that he'd in
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You read your fortune cookie:
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I saw a big dog
By the side of the road
I saw a small deer
By the side of the road
A little maroon water in a glass
As I was driving home
Under darkness
With the wind that was under a rose
New blood will fill the earth
And we must lo
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Over fifty plastic flamingos stood silently at attention... as if eating sea urchins out of our lawn.
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I suppose I'd rather Tomorrow be heroic.
It would make the passing of time less villainous.
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In every word there is both music and history. Music from the way sounds come into union with each other, and history in how they get there. There is form too, sure, but I am not a calligrapher. I'm a scribbler if anything. And so my sentences look mo
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He doesn't tell her that he is married, and that his five year old daughter who is living at your house has a mother back in that same city
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Theresa Esposito woke to the smell of pignoli cookies baking. The sweet scent made her stomach rumble. She was ten-years-old today. And she felt ten. Her hair, her ears, her eyes, her toes — everything felt ten.
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This is a very impromptu piece written at two in the morning based on a prompt from Meg Pokrass, who insisted the following words be used: fussyhairybloomingslipperyflutterdamppaleweedsyanking “Maxfuss” was his password, which was appropriate,…
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I know you through the rich dark brown soilcrumbling in my fingers like chocolate cake.I imagine you nurtured bell-shaped papayas,coaxing their smooth, leathery skinfrom green to yellow,while mangoes, the colors of the island sunset,hung with their tantalizing sweet…
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Hipster-neutral dressed simulacra-person offers a glance and a wave, sudden as a ping-pong serve, designed to crowd your space and "pal" you but I dodge it — I'm practiced at this.
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He pronounced the Afrikaans word with the vowel sound like the vowel in dour. It meant box, but it also meant cunt.
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I feel like I should tell you
things about strength.
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How her camisole strap falls, her bare shoulder, her tattooed arm like an old, Coney Island mural. That dream she had: I bought her a fake, diamond necklace in Manhattan. She wanted to kiss me in the alley but was afraid of the rats
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My people rested naked sandwiches on the arms of chairs, and always had an open saucer with half melted butter, a block of Velveeta cheese in the freezer, an open rice cooker.
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Dear Mom, You told me the connection between a mother and her son is like no other connection. You carried me for nine months. You scheduled visits with the doctor; you thought and discussed and re-thought and re-discussed with dad what my name would be; you…
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The falcon cannot hear the falconer. The rain comes down in sheets.
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This is a warrant for your arrest.
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It is dead, for a time.
Sometimes we are all dead for a time.
Our lives leave off, sleep under the weight of snow.
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Can you see the dark advice?The offspring of the hazardous.Plath's worst poemswere Daddy and Lady Lazarus.Would you explorethe narrowing tunnelsof such splendiferous narcissism?Would you call so passionatelyfor a much better resurrection?A myriad of livesthat rise like…
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