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Well, I finally checked myself into this what you call a “ Facebook Rehab Clinic” up here just about 40 miles outside of Kalispell, Montana in a little town called Gulag and, as I'm sure you can guess, there's no posting or commenting or liking anything anymore…
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the world slips under the waves
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I miss Mother gentling the small of my back. She has forgotten me. Her little girl. Whose thumb she fussed over when a rose thorn scratched it and blood spilled like a secret. Whose smile she said was her morning sunshine, whose hug was incense. I yearn for her lips…
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That year, if you asked Al, was truly the best of times, the worst of times.
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Her mother dressed her like a little girl would dress a doll.
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Every morning if I don't have to go potty....
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It will be a beautiful, luminous, rollicking, transcendent book, the manuscript smudged with tomato sauce and tears.
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I don’t remember much about kindergarten.... The teacher’s name was Mrs. Halverson. She was nice.
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Shhhh, my husband is trying to write...
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fallen leaves, broken limbs fron wounded trees
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She sits and waitsOn a chair that is hardWith a neck that hurtsAnd an eyeball that stings.She sitsSo stiffOn a chair that is hardWith a neck that hurtsAnd an eyeball that stings.She sitsAnd the hand on her lapHas a joint that cracksWith a neck that hurtsAnd an eyeball that…
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Why is there a heavy weight and a chain and a padlock in her woodstove? Because, she says to herself, slightly hysterically, because this is yet another thing that you must carry. Why? Because life is full of chains and padlocks and heavy weights. Hea
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My books wound you. They wound me / too.
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I try to envision long-haired men riding horses across a vast expanse, their faces blank as those of my students.
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Plastic Jesus wears a crown of thorns. I gesture and say: Does that hurt? He says: What do you mean? so I point at his forehead and his hand goes to it and he says O that
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You'll be gone. I'll be gone. I'd hate to think how it was all for nothing, that all we did was stumble into a pretty big hole of our own making. The best place for a broken heart after all is in your own sweet chest. No one else…
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I’m a black and white figure--out of place in a Saturday morning cartoon.
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It wasn't so much the softness of the bed that kept her from sleep, or the pungent bleach-scent of the unfamiliar sheets, but the lack of her clock's familiar tick, tick, tick. Or was it a missing heartbeat? Awake, she watched his chest. On the table, an empty pill …
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last night a girl came
to me in the shape
of my suicide.
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we share somewhat the same past
he was bureau chief of ABC overseas
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Heaven’s a blast! It’s like a big summer camp in space...We are the weavers of the tie-dyed sky.
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Inevitability: it's what's for dinner.
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for he shall inherit your dream.
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they’d been pumping him
with Dilaudid at night,
to adjust his palette for what was
coming, in the soft lamp light he
watched his long fingers sprout pink
caterpillar fuzz, knuckles morphed
into hinges for Monarch butterflies,
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I will not tell you that your anger is wrong, child.
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Stalks were scythed to submission one stroke at a time
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