1573 6 2
|
The goose on the roof isn’t aware it is doing anything odd...
|
1573105
|
Chuck woke when he smelled cooking.
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157221
|
Her eyeballs are made of fur, like plush little bumblebees at home in her sockets.
|
157222
|
Secretly she suspected she was really a witch. She didn't have green skin or scraggly black hair, and certainly no flying monkeys. Maybe those came over time, the more bad things you did, the more ugly you became until all the world could see how horrible
|
157200
|
Leaves clouded the air and piled in great brown heaps like rotted snow on the old Maine road, disturbed for the first time in months by a lone, black SUV. It plowed its way slowly across the asphalt, the black surface cracked and hoary with years of neglect, past…
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1572116
|
W here do you think you're going
what'll you think you'll do
running down this highway
that you never even knew
|
157286
|
He fell through her scalp-crust
|
157232
|
On shingle of seashells &
Bullet shells,
Ghosts drift along the shore
Of the Black Sea.
|
15721111
|
Why do people kill themselves with food? It’s obvious, I suppose. They’re hungry.
|
1572152
|
It was Fredrick Miller, not his murdered son Matthew, who was executed Monday night at Henshaw Prison. (the system won't take anything under 200 characters, so this part is just to take up space. please ignore)
|
1572144
|
|
157241
|
The next moment is a convergence made from a single repeating sequence that disappears behind the voice that tells of it.
|
157254
|
I smell it, it smells/Of giggles and leg shaking
|
157100
|
Martin Heidegger wore hearing protection out on the tarmac at JFK. The runways were broad and he danced and leapt with the freedom of a Cats performer while he guided planes to the terminal.
|
157198
|
drunkards indulge, addicts abuse
|
157100
|
Getting answers felt like it was not enough. Madam Mayweather wanted more. She wanted to hurt someone.
|
157155
|
|
157198
|
The Chicago to Denver fast train clocked 90 MPH plus, but braked hard on the long curve through town, sparks ringing flanged wheels.
|
157100
|
His name is Rick Reynolds. His name is Steve Redford.
|
157142
|
My playing would falter languidly, and transcend itself like a wishful Nocturne
|
157175
|
On a trail, Richard and I came upon a saguaro cactus that had dried in the shape of a human figure. Its arms were lifted and its back was stooped. I said, “It looks like my mother.”
|
157122
|
|
157198
|
Years later he surveys this place again to post something, anything. He plays "sex on fire," sounds that once fueled him. Now he knows the song is about VD, not unbridled potency. Names and words all seem at once familiar and numbing and noise. He once wanted fame or…
|
157133
|
I am asking for something as simple as water. In an oak tree, weeping, a child climbed too high. Tears that the barkstain will never wash clear. O love. We ask far too much when we fall. In a momentary lapsus, the words…
|
157186
|
1. How can one begrudge the cracking open of a heart?When the lava love fire loaded insanity of self-control disappearsAnd the raw spewing beginsYou better be ready for the truthIt ain't gonna be prettyYou'll wish you were deadYou won't recognize where you areYou'll be…
|
157175
|
Nine sated elephants and an ass sit around a decimated Thanksgiving table discussing the state of the union over the hacked to bits carcass of a twenty-three pound turkey. Two years in to The Great Communicator's Lame Duck term and the nine elephants, whose…
|
157111
|
If I floated about this coffee cafe,Like a spirit, just watching.In this room of framed fake memories,A room of ambient light, marketing to the masses,(It works; it gets 'em in the doors.)If I floated, I'd seeThese people sitting—eating, drinking, sipping, typing,…
|
1570105
|
Two types coexist- the sanguine/
and exsanguinated./
My skin is cool/
and pale as moonlight
|
157020
|
Time stole you from underneath the goldendock. Writhing there, slick as a flapping tongue;lips gored, red, whose gaping could embolden weak hands behind the blazing buck blade, long ago pierced in your summer quietus, beneath the soft shade of a tackle box, as the…
|
157076
|
The faces of the sun remain unaltered across the
seven day forecast.
I am sweat-glued to a poem, looking up at the
wall-mounted TV in a diner in the Valley
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