1963 13 10
|
sacred ground bleached with the salt of bitter tears
|
196294
|
Three hours isn't that long.
|
196288
|
Out the window we could see the parking lot and, across the street, the Bijou Moonlight Laundromat.
|
196222
|
Marion had decided to stop whenever she came upon Amarillo. It was close to two a.m. when she pulled into the motel parking lot. Momma, read the nametag on the woman at reception. Her face was illuminated by a TV. Her hair curlers were illuminated by the lone desk lamp…
|
196273
|
Roanne banged the chiva, turned tricks, and ran out of road.
|
1961149
|
By the thousands youngsters swarmed into the streets shuffling aimlessly, many mumbling to themselves, heads bowed as their eyes stared fixedly at the plastic devices in their hands.
|
196122
|
Her face had that strange preserved quality Maybelle saw in many aging Boomer women — like an old toy never removed from its packaging.
|
1961157
|
My mind has started to finish thoughts at 77 Words. These are just a few.
|
19611110
|
Slip me in Between the cracks in your schedule Between the sheets of your bed Between your memories and your fears Between your eyes and the moon where I'll twinkle at you Slip me in somewhere, I won't disturb you Won't make you want to push me away Let…
|
196175
|
When it rains, I can really think.
|
196127
|
Regina Dawn "Gina" Edwards, 49, passed away June 2, 2006.
R.I.P. "Ridge Woman"
|
19602318
|
in my youth I was enamored of the moon—that is to say, lunacyI applauded the bizarre in natureI appropriated the gratuitous from dreamsI drank brashness and frenzy from bookswhat mad things I did!(throwing a bucket of water on the naked couple in the bed)what…
|
196021
|
The Bike Messenger on Lexington Avenue
Comes to rest
taking a moment
in the falling rain
slowly massaging the
veins at the top
of his bald head
Cracking his neck
while the yellow cabs start
honking behind him
Unwilling to mov
|
196000
|
His footing unsure and his clothes covered in vomit, he grabs the railing and stumbles up the three steps. He pulls off his shirt, finds a cleaner area on the puke-covered garment, wipes sweat off his forehead, dripping wet from the humid, stormy night, a
|
1960107
|
god bless my shapeless head. we are good at becoming older. i feel incredibly negative all the time.
|
196077
|
She came from the land of rumpled sheets. She was the very definition of sex. She was the breeze through the wind chimes of his heart. One might say that she actually invented the orgasm. All mirages are this way. Perfect until they disappear. They
|
196082
|
The depth of her love for Briana could only be heard on the 80’s ballads station fumbling from the stereo in Madi’s car, awkward, just like her smile.
|
1960169
|
She was as distant as Mao, someone I never met, but whom everyone carried in their eyes,
|
196012
|
The zombie apocalypse was long foretold as a rather exciting bit of bother involving shotguns and chainsaws, but the reality of it is rather depressingly boring.
|
196022
|
He pulls on his wispy goatee and shifts his weight a few times from one foot to the other. That doesn’t help. It rarely does, to be honest.
|
19592916
|
"...they ran shirtless like pagans under southern stars."
|
19591010
|
He says he’ll have a Bud, too. The woman taps her pencil on her pad, looks at the kid and says, “When?”
|
1959910
|
Together at last, we'd gotten this far toward the warm end of those sweet Promises we made, once, with our sincerest written and passed down smart Words, done all on our own deeds, with some real gusto, and offered them as Christmas Lights,…
|
19592112
|
Fear in a Handful of Dust
|
195902
|
I might as well just keep driving. Past my exit. Beyond my job. Just drive. Until the tank runs out of gas. A blank future is better than this bleak one.
|
195900
|
The words of prophets only serve to demonstrate that ‘unreliable narrative’ can often result in poor literature; unfortunately, poor literature can attract a very large following.
|
1958124
|
all / the secret letters/ ever dreamed up
|
195896
|
I’m maybe only four. Not smoking cigarettes found in street gutters yet. That will come the next year, when I’m five. Maybe when I’m six, and Andy’s five, my pal from across the street. That’s my tricycle parked behind this pack of kids that look to be ne
|
195844
|
Some poems slip out easily
Thick and solid
Well-oiled and fully formed
|
19581913
|
It’s not the money. The money’s/
just a way of keeping score.
|
