1621 8 6
|
If I seemed disappointed after our conversation,
then, for the record, that was never the case.
|
162132
|
...Heroin. It helped them get through the tricks and sucked up their flesh.
|
1620102
|
Saturday morning, and I’m pushing the old truck a little, chasing retreating bands of cloud shadows along a winding hilltop road.
|
162010
|
“We’re never going to get off the treadmill of paying ever-higher taxes," I said, "unless we get some creative suggestions from a professional bisexual tax advisor.”
|
162000
|
Street by street, non-combatants ran away. Each one passed by the Society and law enforcement screaming.
|
162043
|
You think about the first time you saw an axe
|
162070
|
He came running out of his narrow little shop, Berthillon
and chased me down the Ilse St. Louis street, saying,
“Monsieur, Monsieur, nous avon pamplemousse!
It’s ici, Monsieur. Your pamplemousse.
They just come in this matin, morning
and I’
|
162000
|
A customary phone call from home. What are you doing she says? Playing football I retort – what else. The usual sigh and a faint giggle followed. Much unlike how it backfired back in the late 20’s and we were going to make it the reason to break up! The p
|
162011
|
There is no cement stronger than the one holding a miserable couple together.
|
162054
|
we gave divided houses / child stand up anyway
|
1620158
|
She is too stylish to be crazy, is what the migrant probably thinks. And he's right.
|
162053
|
Rose lifted her 55-year-old legs until they were perpendicular to the bed and admired how girlish they looked. It gave her the sexy legs of a 20-year old, if the morning light was right and she squinted a bit.
|
1620104
|
The aisle, nave and/
transept twist themselves/
into an auditorium.
|
162050
|
She said “I have to go”, he answered with his eyes “Don't” and they stepped closer to each other in the kitchen, a step on the tiled floor, the remnants of their tea cold on the counter top.
|
161933
|
Excelsior: A Poem in Nine Parts Preface: Musings on a Lighthouse by an Eastern Isle (Suggested by a painting by Mario Larrinaga) It is bright tonight; this plain, displaced from place In Time's broad flight, yields…
|
161911
|
"Shit," said the Charge Nurse. "Not again."
|
1619103
|
Palms planted firmly against his temples, Travis paced the room like a caged animal. Giant black bats screeched in his brain, their pointy wings scraping at the edges of his cranium.
|
161932
|
Somniloquies rise like the drowned . . .
|
161994
|
The man's dog slipped away one night. He left soon after.
|
161933
|
I said, “If this rose doesn't grow another petal in twenty minutes, I'm burning down the neighborhood.” “Just let it go,” said Paul. “No,” I said. “That's what's happening right here.” “You'll try again next…
|
161932
|
"Why, before the summer has passed
You won’t remember her name. . ."
|
1619106
|
People Who Go to Poems for Truth
|
161932
|
Von Meckel had us all go out and paint this huge red square around the Red Diaper Baby factory. Then he held a big naming rally, at noon, during our lunch break. We weren’t allowed to eat our sandwiches. There was all this pomp and circumstance. We were
|
1619108
|
|
161940
|
The way each intersection in a city where you’ve lived a while becomes layered with personal archeology.
The cafe that replaced a liquor store you avoided, and the friend (or lover) you broke up with there,
and the way on the day of the big fire you
|
16191410
|
A woman posted a story on Fictionaut about discovering that her husband was a werewolf.
|
161965
|
We now live in post-Postmodern Absurdist fear of course, says our smiling Prof. That’s the price we pay he tells us. . . .
|
161931
|
The man had decided that this was going to be his last day. He’d find out one final thing and he’d be done. He had spent the last few years of his life unwinding things that had been wound and untying knots that had been tied.
|
161921
|
This was before the cancer, years before. He did this every day: up at five, before Astrid and Max. Four cups of coffee in the machine. A bowl of granola. Five hundred words. Five hundred words no matter goddamn what. Five hundred words on Sunday and Chri
|
1619105
|
The catchy tune and cloying lyrics/
nonetheless etch their patterns
|
