1639 10 6
|
In the small hours, when the crackling of the embers had stopped and the room had gone cold, the boiler kicked in and the pipes began to clang. He was half-roused out of his sleep, and then slipped under again to dream of Marley's fettered ghost.
|
163910
|
I'm completely naked in an unheated basement, about 40 first year university students, most of them female, are staring at my ridiculous waif-like body.
|
163900
|
Under the dirty orange glow of sodium streetlights, the glistening pavement looks slick, but it’s only just wet. The mid-November temperature is cool—quite mild, actually, for this late time of year—still hovering in the upper 30s—so far posing only the
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163911
|
Her thumbs tucked beneath the waistline of her pants, slightly pulling them down to expose the eternity between belly button and bliss. I looked up at her as I slid my tongue along the rail of her hip, sucking at its point.
|
163977
|
The careful paths of larger versions gave me enough time to think, to sense their fears from pauses between footsteps, and prepare those minutes, hours, weeks before they decomposed into my whole.
|
163931
|
the future wrapped up in a dream
|
163986
|
“No,” he says. A simple lie. “I -” He pushes the sleeping bag off of his legs. Their getaway reset was a mistake.
|
163911
|
Perhaps a blue person is more alive underneath than a red. Red is eye-catching and flashy, but blue is substantial, secretive. Of course, blood is red, and there’s nothing more substantial than blood, but we’re on blue at the moment, and the thought
|
163921
|
I kept a journal
for so many years
I've forgotten
everything I wrote.
|
163964
|
He had stared at the back of his neck for so long that images of his nape flashed into view randomly throughout the day like interfering signals from a station just out of reach, DESIRE CHANNEL, or something, reminding him of his skewed priorities, his fa
|
16391513
|
We lived on the edge of a tiny Iowa town, and picked corn fields were steps away.
|
163912
|
I am tired of playing the old game: Saying something old in a new way. So let me do the opposite:
|
16381411
|
|
163832
|
He arrives at the appointed hour, driving up the dusty road in his '68 Ford truck. On the side is stenciled “Sampson's Farrier Service.” He parks in front of the barn. Patience watches from the front porch, where she has just set down a…
|
163801
|
Well, just put your hand on my knee, alone in my room, perv, unasked-and-unflirted for, go get a date, you coward, you limp-dicked male bitch . . .
|
163833
|
I know I’m slipping
into my mother’s skin. I answer the phone
with her voice; her hands grind the coffee beans.
And who is this listening to NPR in the morning
while the fresh-faced girls in the neighborhood trudge toward school,,
peonies han
|
163821
|
The air has its dark confessional, and I have mine. Hot is called raw by some, hate mixed with malice for others. I am only separated by this dark window of time from you, but you never feared the lovely or the lonely.
|
16381912
|
Start now. Make lists. Call long-lost friends. Say what needs saying. Raise hell.
|
163875
|
Traveling in half-lit fluorescence, she smiles up at me, pale and strained
|
163842
|
{A} So I think maybe I am a robot. If I was a robot, I would do lewd things, metallic (cold, hard, shiny, heavy, malleable, loud, acrid, industrial, immovable, unstoppable) things. I would do the things I do in my dark powerless dreams. People would understand and…
|
1638138
|
A lifeboat came by in the night,
And I finally saw we were sinking.
|
163800
|
Redundancy was critical for survival, the builders said, so they designed Us with three cores of memory, each segment fully capable of independent operation.
|
16381514
|
I wrote this during a poetry workshop at the Atlantic Center for the Arts with Carolyn Forché. January, 2015. So much more has happened since that stunning week.
|
1638138
|
When you bring information, it does not arrive.
|
16382713
|
It’s beautiful to look at and to hold/
though true musicians would be appalled/
by the black plastic
|
163733
|
In a corner of a neighbor’s land too stony to till Cob makes a mystery.
|
163710
|
He searched for something deserving of the word “bestowed,” something so rare as to horrify the clerics of ordinariness.
|
163743
|
When I was a kid, I was terrified of dying in a bombing,
which is strange, really, because I lived in Long Island,
which has relatively few bombings to speak of.
|
163754
|
Beneath the crosshatch gazes of the satellites and above the maze of sound, seahorse clouds exhale a glaucoma haze before they are absorbed into surveillance footage
|
163754
|
Never touch David Letterman's neck!
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