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Well, I finally checked myself into this what you call a “ Facebook Rehab Clinic” up here just about 40 miles outside of Kalispell, Montana in a little town called Gulag and, as I'm sure you can guess, there's no posting or commenting or liking anything anymore…
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My flash kept going off. The museum officials are strict about such matters. Sans flash! Sans flash, Monsieur!
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Like the swift night-black blue of a cormorant as it suddenly dips into a rush of white cold water,eyeing its possible food, we too sweepdown on what we think we see, rising wet sometimes with the reward,or hapless, dripping, we try again.
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If something hurts enough/
you never forget it. Like the//
toothache when you first learned
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I asked her how she came to be at our little party. We all knew she was an intern. What would she want with the likes of us, the orderlies and techs and strays? She just held up Ed's flyer and said, "Why not?" But she didn't look happy. We fired up and someone said, "Let's…
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Let's just rest and let the wind blow through our hair, while the mountains quake and the trees shake their leaves. Towards another destiny, a new world ... where greed is only a word without significance, hunger doesn't belong in a dictionary and money is only an…
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Let's start from the beginning. Your mother's face in the phone. Your parted lips. Your surprised tongue. Hands deep in the folds of your skirt. The poet filling your pockets with blue and orange. The poet filling your notebooks with slowly drifting fields and gramophones…
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I don't know when it was I first stumbled across your blog. I know I definitely must've followed the link on your twitter profile, but how I found you in the first place, I have no idea. But fate works in mysterious ways, I suppose. I remember I then visited your blog every…
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We now live in post-Postmodern Absurdist fear of course, says our smiling Prof. That’s the price we pay he tells us. . . .
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"You'll be alright! Just pinch your nose!"
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He didn’t even have the energy to tell me to tie her up when he got home.
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Oh Triple-Crownéd who evades my sight,/ Guide me down proper crossroads in this life/ As you have promised to grant me your might/ And make of me eternity's fair wife.
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Look out your window and know that the universe conspired to craft the sunrise for your morning tea, the mug clasped in hand, the light bouncing from the balcony railing. The empty seat next to you will always be filled
and I will never properly thank y
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I could feel myself slipping back into my old ways again and it always hurt like hell.
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I wrote this paragraph (the first in a series of 14 paragraphs) shortly after Frank Sinatra had died and during my last visit to my boyfriend, M. He had not seen me write something in years.
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angels give them names of important people, people under the control of evil demons whose influence must be negated at all cost if humanity is to survive into the future and achieve its ultimate potential.
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A cloudy autumn morning greeted Sean as he stepped from the trolley at Grand Central Station. On his way to the tracks he purchased a copy of The New York Times dated October 24, 1934.
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Let's say maybe you're in a place your mind has never left, and let's say maybe it's Mississippi, and let's say maybe it's summer with kudzu throbbing green all around you, and let's say maybe she's a Sagittarius girl, standing in that driveway with her young breasts…
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It’s strange, what will become of me
What my life will be like
Since the animal in me
Is beginning to show on my back
Oh no, no, no
Women will never put up with this
I was afraid this would happen
They’ll think I’m only half a man
I’
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There was only the sound of crickets.
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Two days ago, a friend of mine and I met at my house. She was a nurse, and could only visit my house very late at night when her shift ended. We don’t meet often because she is very busy saving lives and generally being a more useful human being in societ
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And soon you'll be walking
and walking
and walking
and walking
and walking
and walking
and walking
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Pringy practices an aesthetic variant of the “muscular Christianity” that is a tradition at Groton; a program of Sunday poetry classes for boys who violate the school’s ban on swearing.
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You borrow words from platforms you could never build
Borrow morals from a party gone sour
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I was tired and lonesome when I checked into another insufferable, shop-worn Holiday Inn. It was the only motel around with the internet — dial up only — in that little jerkwater town, Notmuch, Alabama. It was too late for a nap, so I jumped in the shower,…
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He’s more than a little pissed at all this eternal boulder rolling.
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Sit down at night and stare into the fire. Consider if Cupid is just another liar.
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