1789 11 9
|
Librarians are hiding something. What is it?
|
178943
|
There is nothing so obscure it is not enhanced by talking, nothing so dull it cannot be coaxed into brilliance, nothing so deep it cannot be dug from an abyss and brought to the surface in paroxysms of red.
|
178995
|
Sundays after Mass, Sister Edburga gathered the team in the shower room, we stripped naked in a circle, held hands and said a prayer we’d win our game. A boy no one knew walked alongside her with a box full of jockstraps.
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178920
|
This is an older story that was inspired by research on naming conventions while trying to find record of my own ancestors in the Ukraine. I did not find them. Instead I was inspired to write this.
|
178974
|
Sagittarius (Nov.22 – Dec. 21)
Listen to the voices
inside your head.
They speak to you
for a reason.
Now is not the time for debate.
|
178900
|
The desk calendar was brilliant, unused. The problems with it didn't begin until March.
|
178942
|
They leaned against the hood of his pickup, which sat heavy on its wheels, the back of it filled with the things that he’d held out of the yard sale three days earlier.
“When’re you leaving?” she asked.
“Early. Get on down the road. Shut ’er down ea
|
178833
|
Do you know first hiss of batter hitting groundnut oil in a shallow pan, I ask, on a morning after a long, dream-ridden sleep?
|
1788149
|
“Mommy,” the voice was thin as a fledgling's. “I'm here, baby,” I said. An arm rose from the pavement and small fingers wound themselves into my…
|
178876
|
Alexander Ivanovich stuck out his leg and tripped Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev stood up, took two steps forward, stuck out his leg and tripped Alexander Ivanovich.
|
178854
|
just wondering what one does when age and job skills narrow one's career options
|
178800
|
When I think about love, I actually think about life. And when I think about that, I wonder if we’re really who we used to be.
|
1788206
|
She lifts her head, nose heavenward. There’s a wet spot on my dress from our lovemaking, its aroma as heady as Claudine’s bouillabaisse. I hope she smells it.
|
178800
|
Vito stood before the mirror combing his dark, freshly-cut hair. He trimmed his thick mustache, then buttoned his black vest. He liked its tight fit against his muscular torso. He had difficulty fastening the top button of his white shirt, the collar tigh
|
178741
|
Wives, without exception, have birthdays,
which if forgotten, are much-less-than-mirth days.
|
17871816
|
I can’t take my eyes off a tall blonde with green eyes. I catch her eye.
|
1787103
|
“No one likes an indecisive sexual partner.”
|
1787148
|
She walks ahead, dropping matches as she goes. Grassland is consumed by flames and when I arrive all is wasted.
|
178701
|
My heart and mind, eyes, hands and lips — Yours.
|
178700
|
What a hoot men are. For years I tried to get Jim to share the cooking. This is how that worked. One Monday night I'd whipped up a meal of steak, tossed salad, two veggies, and dessert with coffee. The next day was Jim's turn to cook and he came home
|
1787115
|
What did they even invent
clothing for? I asked.
|
178784
|
In the middle of the floor squatted a sway-backed butcher block that appeared to have been chopped upon with such force as to make it cower.
|
178750
|
I like to think of my poetry as fungus, sprouting out of the dank and fertile soil of my imagination.
|
178772
|
Can't cope.
Got no hope.
Got no dope.
Call the Pope.
Get the rope.
|
1786137
|
Here’s how you do it. First you get a ladder, a long one.
|
17861813
|
Rough sonnet about faded love
|
178665
|
Last night I spoke to the universeon your behalf. I don't know if anyone understood my plea, but I did it, I knew what I meant to say out loud, heard myself implore the great cosmic stuffing we're all fluffed out of to pleasejust give you a…
|
178673
|
Looking at his pale and pimpled flesh, he was repulsed by his flaccid and lifeless member. The accompanying bits, dangled about far from his frame as the summer heat drew them away from his sweaty and unwashed body.
|
178684
|
...Father is with her, face stinking with cheer...
|
178621
|
The poet paused
Pen poised in hand
A wrinkle on his brow
He’d but to rhyme the final verse
The only problem
How?
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