1758 11 8
|
The wind has no voice
and yet we listen,
perhaps imagining the ramblings
of a mad man
|
175821
|
The Marigold gloves are yellow (figures!) and medium, the apron ironed with a touch of starch added...
|
175833
|
First, the title: How George Bush And the Lovely Danielle Saved Planet Earth From Zork the Galactic Destroyer. A little unwieldy perhaps but still, a grabber. Already you're thinking, George Bush? Saving Earth? Did he die by his own fucking hand?…
|
17572016
|
The custard of eternity is scooped into
the quantum cone of knowledge and drips
out the bottom one lifetime at a time.
|
175700
|
—with spinster goddesses in the middle of things / circling looms.
|
175742
|
He returned to America on the Fourth of July. Twisting in his cramped window seat miles above the Atlantic, he buckled up before the descent. “You can handle this,” he muttered. Hungover, still reeling from the dreamy head-turning experience of…
|
175740
|
There was that long weekend she'd spent lazing around a suite at the Beverly Wilshire between the Golden Globes and the Oscars with the suddenly now married actor, and then there had been Cabo. This was before the current thing and before the thing before
|
175765
|
He checks the bedrooms first,
then the hallway,
followed by the living room
and the bathrooms.
When he can't find you he takes to calling out,
daddy,
I'm sure the neighbors hear.
|
175745
|
PORNOGRAPHY First He went across the floor to where she sat. One sleeve of her shirt dropped to show her shoulder, salted and brown. One hundred fish filled the wave. Now, he said. Now is now. Second The car wouldn't…
|
1757100
|
"What say we adjourn to the bedroom and I give you a little demonstration of sexual acrobatics?”
|
175750
|
The sound of it wasn't right in his head yet. When he said it aloud he didn't really believe it.
|
175797
|
"Think of every sexual partner you've ever had. I'm nothing like them. Unless you've ever slept with a bulimic German cellist called Elsa."
|
1757135
|
The Fuddy-Duddy Writer does not do wit.
|
17561710
|
Ancestry.com The Liverpool census in 1851 lists him:Thirteen years old, Irish. Occupation: beggar. Only that. I will do more for him.I will see him in torn jacket and too-short pants singing all day of the fields, the cliffs,…
|
175621
|
so one time the Holy Ghost come down to Stumptown
|
175611
|
Graeme King was disturbed. He sat at his desk feeling his bloodshot eyes rolling backwards, impatient, leaden in their sockets. Could he believe what he had just seen? Surely not. Surely the late nights spent absorbing the relentless pulse of his computer screen…
|
17561812
|
There's a man sitting in my room holding a jar of my ashes. That's what he claims.
|
175664
|
Raymond Carver used to write poetry in his car. /
Tonight, I tried it too. /
I have a car like Raymond Carver /
but cannot write poetry like Raymond Carver. /
The car isn’t enough.
|
17562114
|
|
175511
|
[CAUTION: IF YOU ARE UNDULY "FIXATED" ON GOD, AMERICA, MOM, APPLE PIE, AND/OR BASEBALL ... YOU MAY WANT TO AVERT YOUR EYES!]
|
1755125
|
I can’t stop looking at the burly man to my left with the blue lips and three-inch mustache. He orders his fourth whiskey. He laughs at my melancholy like it was a flat thing--a dead animal to strip of its fur. Why be melancholic when you can float on whi
|
1755108
|
Time to pull in the shining teeth, but it makes me so sad, you know I'd rather be holding hands. The others have told me, don't hold back, hit them with every white knuckle, and let them bleed out, I'd rather be kissing your face. It hurts,…
|
175523
|
Ride me, I say, and you never hear. No matter how I shine my padding, it's never what draws you to me. I only get to touch you when you feel guilty, and most of the time, it's only through shorts and graduated compression socks. What does my desire matter? It all comes out…
|
175581
|
She had a strange name which I am ashamed/
To have forgotten, seven times, maybe nine,/
Her lips transgressors, wet with sourapple ...
|
175575
|
skies electric blue,/limpid dewy air, the world/framed by a small farm.
|
17551310
|
I will not tell you that your anger is wrong, child.
|
175554
|
It was Brad, for short; or so he would say. But really his name was Bradford, and he was a writer. He had almost always lived in New York. He was only half-white. His mother had run away with a black man in the sixties. Her father had told her to never come back to…
|
1755105
|
"She had been warned." (this started as a fun alien story and then took a human turn.)
|
175553
|
It's a pretty strange feeling when you think you're about to bite into some ice cream and instead it's gazpacho.
|
175451
|
‘Oh, and try these. ' She handed me a plastic baggy full of seeds that resembled watermelon seeds, only smaller. ‘If these don't work your problem runs deeper...'
|
