1127 11 6
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A pinprick breaks the black/
and pins the spin of constellations/
around its still point.
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Bruno Hackmann and I hung out all summer, and then Joe came back from Persia.
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1011111
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I imagined cool, wet clay oozing between my fingers when I'd squeeze a tight fistful.
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the moon is coming back now the shadow hovering and shiftingthe clouds a passing shroud I didn't know if I would be patient enough but now the sliver of light is increasing filling in / filling out the circle I am surprised by how much relief I feel there…
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and skirts, lovely batiks, swirl around your ankles
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Is this a place to show posterity and mortality?
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Erin Hoffmeyer Zulkoski. I was at work today, doodling on a piece of scrap paper. I often find myself writing my name, practicing my signature, for when I become famous. I have always written "Erin Zulkoski." Today, I wrote "Erin Hoffmeyer." This…
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I've written of this and I've written of that, Have scriven as you have it either that or this: But if you strive against the wind when you decide to piss, They say, you'll find up firing against your hat- Like some old Brother who was broiled when…
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When her husband left she was not yet thirty
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But it all works out. I guess. Truth is something I'm sure I've never seen before, but the more time goes on, the Less I'm inclined to believe in it. Still I don't want To be one of those giving the finger to God And begging for a showdown with an…
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She wears a green and pink bikini and walks real slow, poking her chest out so people will notice her.
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It is certain. The roofs are hats for the houses because you wear a hat in the rain or the snow or even and sometimes especially the sun. The houses are curious. They keep their hats on at night. The downspouts for run-off water are strands of hair such as…
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She smacked his back a couple of times with the flat of her hand
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Mounds of earth and grassless ground
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The last thing I remember is falling below the water, lungs filling with liquid.
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As air warms and warm/
winds stir, green becomes the force/
that surges the plains.
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In San Francisco, there rides at night a phantom streetcar whose driver is none other than Walt Whitman . . .
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Your boredoms are not my fascinations. Your boredoms Belong to the ice caves with the Mammoths, Although haven't they been tortured enough by the Changing winds? Your boredoms are far from twinkling Objects in the beaks of ancient crows,…
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is this the end of civilization
is this what i've been thinking of
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The woman broke the law with that scream. I would say that there was pleasure in it, for her. I would also estimate that ten or fifteen men saw it, ten or fifteen men plus me.
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It was when the party hit a lull and a woman wearing too much rouge was going on about her parakeets that Tom decided to set down his bourbon glass and pull out his gun.
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It was a cruel question, coming on breath that stank of the grave.
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Can I really be blamed? Look at the circumstantial evidence: you wore that skirt, which can hardly be called a skirt. More like a very wide plaid belt.
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They both have an annoying habit. She talks to him while she's in another room, and he doesn't answer because he can't hear what she's saying.
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You’re the girl that would sneak out to poetry readings instead of parties, watching fierce semi-bearded men reading their poems from hand-stapled zines.
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I have an appointment set for the day after next; you said you thought you might be firing blanks and then I feel a kick into my chest—two kicks, three, seven at least—my cat is going crazy at the stinky tom outside the window and the birds are waking, sc
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oh, sure i’m still running around like a heads-up/off/prophet/profit/fit trying to cut off my very own de/(con)instruction and all other sordid a•void•able & available /a-Babel-Trumpish towers of post & toastmodern doom/daze/haze
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I said hey man, how you doin’? He looked up and nodded but his shades flashed and I couldn’t see his eyes.
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8) An exercise online calls for the first sentence on page 45 of the book nearest you as a suggested description of your love life. The book 9) nearest me still is _The Quarterly_, 1, spring 1987, that I have on my desk in preparing to write an essay.
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