| 1365  2  1   
 | It is like truth on the battle field. Muted | 
		
		
			| 1030  2  3   
 | A nice girl is like powder, quick to anger, fresh, impudent, too quick to know what expletives fate speaks. It was a cold year for trash talk and sheer silk. And yes, the fox was smoking, who could attract or irritate a nice girl with the same look, a wom | 
		
		
			| 1176  2  2   
 | At the Winslow Funeral Home in Winslow, Arizona, just like in the Eagles’ 70s song “Take It Easy,” only I’m not taking it easy. | 
		
		
			| 1903  2  2   
 | In those days everyone ate poetry for lunch. It was considered essential for your good up-bringing and mental health. We would skip a meal in order to satisfy our hunger for words. To hell with a meal. To hell with dirty politics and meaningless wars on o | 
		
		
			| 1072  2  1   
 | I know what that coast was like, where you went. A coarse country filled with malodorous women that sang from the shores. Groups of nine stripped to the waist. Some with braids hanging down their back. Garden beauties. Visual porticos, with their floral | 
		
		
			| 980  2  1   
 | The cabinets in D’s kitchen are a pantry of unusual sounds. It is where they are stored.  | 
		
		
			| 1148  2  2   
 | It didn't matter if they burned or not. | 
		
		
			| 1309  2  1   
 | Under a conspiratorial moon… the shovel my silent partner… organ-less torso to the worms. | 
		
		
			| 1160  2  1   
 | Did I refer to Mark Twain’s typewriter as an animal? Did I call it a hyena? I would not say that about Mark Twain’s typewriter.  | 
		
		
			| 1282  2  1   
 | I stared at these meteor impacts, feeling far away, a lone sentient cloud admiring the scoured yet wondrous earth-of-this-girl below me, the lean slope of her side, the soft dip of her neck, the sharp edge of her cheekbone, the monarch wing of her eyelash | 
		
		
			| 1215  2  1   
 | In the living room of a model home, Mr. Jorgensen lived. He was a mannequin. He spent his days in display windows. He spent his commutes displaying the latest model cars.  | 
		
		
			| 1345  2  1   
 | they flew down the slopes
with her holding on
for all she was worth
 | 
		
		
			| 1615  2  1   
 | I kept a journal
for so many years
I've forgotten
everything I wrote. | 
		
		
			| 985  2  0   
 | She's been considering her breasts more now. | 
		
		
			| 915  2  0   
 | I don’t like telling stories. I’m far too honest and give far too many things away.  | 
		
		
			| 1132  2  2   
 | Pictures of war correspondents from The Tribune, and colonial photographs in a fruit crate | 
		
		
			| 872  2  1   
 | [Scumbag scumbag ― fuck you!!!  Stop reading this it's my private JOURNAL!!!  Thanks. ;) ] | 
		
		
			| 307  2  2   
 | Now her right breast was annoying her.  | 
		
		
			| 1715  2  4   
 |  | 
		
		
			| 982  2  1   
 | “You’re just like me,” she said, as dawn was breaking. “You like sex.”  | 
		
		
			| 1053  2  2   
 | Yes, I had pulled my own heart apart 
Yes, I had slipped up on time itself 
In its own backyard behind my memories 
And scared the crap out of it 
By not yelling, just sniffing at its neck 
Longingly, tearing it apart with my teeth 
Wishing I had  | 
		
		
			| 880  2  2   
 | Are there places that words cannot go? Consider words going where they were never intended to go. | 
		
		
			| 676  2  2   
 | Standing on the edge of the great shelf  | 
		
		
			| 1691  2  0   
 | Nothing more savory than gossip relayed in confidential tones. | 
		
		
			| 1040  2  0   
 | Her smile was a cliff I stood on, trying to wrangle some kind of hope from the whites of her teeth. I heard the sound of the buzzer from the door on my ward. She stood there, a sickly ash tree, each limb flailing about like she was drowning in my sea of a | 
		
		
			| 922  2  0   
 |      Edwin was the last thing I bought. With his uneven eyes and  curious leg stumps, he was a must-have. When I showed Edwin to my housemates he  was hugged many times, and praised as though he was real. Knowing my  housemates, Edwin may have saved some lives… | 
		
		
			| 1143  2  0   
 | Poets die every day but are seldom in position to put the experience to literary merit. | 
		
		
			| 221  2  1   
 | Like sun-stream through a spider's   web  I came with nothing left to   master, at least nothingtoo abstract.  Like moonlight thru a metal   gate  I emitted what was animal,   without ceremony, without fate, only the diagonal,    only the hexagonal, only   configuration. … | 
		
		
			| 1189  2  2   
 |  | 
		
		
			| 1244  2  0   
 | Sunday, May 9, 1773     Sir —     The world must at present  be perpetual  on the primitive state of human nature     Conjecture     The jealousy and envy   boils over  a dead weight  strangled serpents in  the Temple |