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Chapter one I was sitting in the doctor's office. For weeks, my nerves had been on edge, and I had been feeling like he was going to have a nervous breakdown. I needed the help of a professional. It was hard for me to admit this. I was taught that a man handled…
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My gaze could have gutted any man. Any man, but John Marcy. History would write that John Marcy was a traitor to his country. Public enemy number one in the state of New York. When that probably couldn’t be farther from the truth.
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147888
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It is the first day of summer, a blue-green afternoon, and we sit beneath the English oak, Quercus robur. Everything has at least two names. It is the first day of summer, or the last day of something else.
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147811
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1. Poor grammar does not sleep. 2. We'll never finish every idea we have. 3. No matter how hard you try, you still might make it into my book
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147865
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His looks were polished like his shoes, his hair as black. No one would have guessed he made his living as a thief.
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Margie sprayed the gift with her most expensive perfume and tucked it into her sweater’s front pocket. This way she could hold it close to her on the subway, so no one would see the pretty wrapping and try to snatch it from her
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it felt fucking awesome at that moment, in that way only little things can feel huge and life affirming
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“But I don't HAVE an accent,” she said. With an accent. “Tell him I don't have an accent, y'all.” Looking from one friend to another. Messy ponytail bouncing. I just stared. I may have blinked. A couple times. Every syllable…
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I fear my personal information travels the World Wide Web/
and mad Ukrainians will steal my name and wealth./
I fear the fiscal cliff and raising the ceiling on national debt./
I fear a death by taxes.
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147844
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My father's cousin is Salem the Dead.
Famed, an infant Lazarus of Libya,
he was brought lifeless from the womb,
yet awoke to the chill of a mortuary slab.
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1478116
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I write poems as if language matters.
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not of time, but of all the clocks/
that tick along toward the end/
of all the possibilities.
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How to capture in word, in song, the fleeting moments of our loveYou were hereAnd now you're goneEven as I used to lie next to you,bathed in the care and concern that emanated from your warm black brown eyes,I knew there would be that day, that you were no moreDestined for…
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147821
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The Mojave Desert remembers Ron Paul
With tattered billboards
Scraped and clawed by vehement dust
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147862
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I took a lover on Ibiza either because he was clean-smelling or because he had a hotel room and there were none to be had.
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maybe a day in deep winter
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147833
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The questions we ask ourselves define who we are as a culture. “What is the meaning of life?” “Is there a God?” “Does anybody really know what time it is?” “Where the hell did I put my car keys?” To see what…
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I spent most of those days in my car. Stashed in the trunk was a cache of precious stones, neatly sorted and separated, bound in smooth black velvet inside a smooth black briefcase.
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Dreams will show you a life that might or might not be yours, but you better believe that they've got to serve when you're asked to come up with a story."--Frank Baron, the night he made bail and left town1. First Blood in Dreams Long Ago The…
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Published in Exquisite CorpseI…
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True story, I swear to God.
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147731
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"do you know what your problem is when it comes to girls?"
she must mean other than the fact that they're all
completely insane. or at least all the ones i've dated.
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147711
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Roanne hungered. Memory had ruled her forever. Shards really, edged like machetes: daddy, whose fingers had eyes in the dark. Momma, ensconced in the shadows. Inside the church, those pairs of short…
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-Love is a rushing
of blood
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some days are
minotaur shit on your tongue/
smokestacks dumping acid rain on your already thinning hair
your eyelashes pinned in upside down, backward/you give wrong shaving directions to the mirror
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Ug seemed kinda down in the dumps so, uncharacteristically for a male hominid, I asked him why he looked so glum.
“Ug no find nice girl,” he said, poking a stick in the dirt.
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white-gray mounds persist
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1477148
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One of the drunk men, a dear friend, hunk, as he updated me, now living the existence of a poet, called from San Francisco to say he would take the plane to Minneapolis, do it, then leave me to raise the baby.
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The cloudless sky/
amplifies the incompletion,/
clarifies the imperfections/
of the night’s normalcy-
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