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When Kat returned home from The East Street Wars, she learned that her epileptic lover, White Dog, died from madness
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It is indisputable that poets love roadkill...
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chains across all the old doors
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There are lines//
across time, beyond the tug/
of elections and fashion,/
beyond the turbulence of history
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I am the ritual/
banalities of days numbered,/
numberless, and numb.
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I suggested when we passed the flesh shack that we turn around and that I go in and say to the sex workers that the Russians are fetching $3.5K per hour in Manhattan and it's private, unlike there at that road-side shack.
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Sitting together at Starbucks, we composed a long love letter which we've been mailing back and forth to each other, signing our name upon each receipt and returning it for the last nine months and it has grown to eighty seven pages, barely fitting in a shoe box.
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In those years,
you and I were told to leap
for a world suffused with sound
and industry.
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One of the drunk men, a dear friend, hunk, as he updated me, now living the existence of a poet, called from San Francisco to say he would take the plane to Minneapolis, do it, then leave me to raise the baby.
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Just a little shop girl in for the summer. Working on a typewriter. Barely knowing where the keys were. That was her. She was terrible at it. He was in a suit. He looked short, and thin, but something about him was captivating. He was in his own way hands
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You should really see my father's bunions. They are as obnoxious as fuchsia bowling bowls.
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...what will happen to me buying drugs on the street, at night...?
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When I come to suck fresh raspberries'
juice from your hair
pressing the clasp of my mouth's purse
on the oyster of your ear;
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I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO SAY TO YOU, she lisps, and, with this, the fissure in the man’s head reaches the bottom of his chin and the hollow head splits in two.
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...but still, when she whispers that going out now might put her in the mood later he unties from his mooring and sets them both drifting toward the gin-splintered latitudes
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Are you there? It’s been so long since I had someone to talk to. Besides Oscar and Wilde, I mean. I feed them crumbs of bread. They’re my pet rats, my only friends. Besides you, of course. How kind of you to remember me! How shall I begin?
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“I want to show you something pretty.”
She looked at me, chin on her chest, watery brown eyes looking up. Skin tags on her eyelids made it difficult for her to look as coquettish as she wanted. She tried to flutter what was left of her eyelashes, but syr
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And on nights like those I conjure Martha's childhood, a little girl who could make the whole world fall in love with her, with those goddam big seashell eyes, enticing adults to fall into a blue-green sea that never ends, never promises survival.
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She was petite, pear-shaped, white, the girlfriend of a friend who'd done his degree in Russian Literature, but that's not the only reason I liked him. The husband I had for a while traveled whether he needed to or not and so I'd go with Julie and Phillip to movies,…
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I crave the confines of the convent
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Shred the roses he posted, fling the petals like slideshows of storms.
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When we take Vengeance,/
shave and shower him,/
deodorize and scent him,/
clothe him in a starched shirt
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The author's note explains...
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Its colour a spectral silver shimmered in the pale afternoon sunlight which glinted on its small red and blue insignia so far from home. The landing stage of the unmanned Viking spacecraft had broken away from the main section on schedule before starting its descent through…
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I. The sun's corona. Empty boxes near the firehouse. Red birth. A bird's lost wing. II. The bitterness of littleness. Apples in a pile.Early love.A spider, swinging. III. A father's harshness.Twelve bills unpaid. Leaves in a crevice. A dream…
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A crone dressed in black pours liquid from a bottle onto the egg. Whiskey. Gasp! The egg cooks before our eyes!
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The old lady is losing her memory. She forgets people's names yet so familiar to her. A little sheepish, she takes her basket and walks to the village. Just like when her legs were young, suntanned, shapely and attractive. Along the footpath, by the shop windows, over the…
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Dear Friends: Thank you for all your newsy newsletters bragging about your children's accomplishments and your exotic travels this year. We, too, have had a wonderful year. Our son, Rick, was arrested for possession of cocaine but…
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Microscopic purposes emerged//
with their combinations and permutations
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