1337 15 10
|
Translation’s not required—music/
sings itself complete and comprehensible
|
133711
|
Every day, I write myself further away
From the East
Where we began
|
1337149
|
The dog is reading. This morning, as every morning, the book is open in front of him. Well before his master's rise, he had already read the moon then dawn and the clouds. Now the slippers, these that walk here and there. Followed by coffee and the pages that turn. A little…
|
1337179
|
In the next week or two, the red oak/
will loose and lose its leaves
|
133732
|
today on the bus/ a man in his fifties/ smiled at a baby/
|
133711
|
Like a distant memory of past expectations
I wander through past journeys, delineations
chew on the fresh air like a discontented Wordsworth
now free, free to roam where I will..
|
133722
|
Sounds terrific, but are there any strings attached?
|
133795
|
The car was a two-tone black and white Chevy...
|
133742
|
i saw a sign and it read A PERSON THAT IS MEAN TO THE WAITER IS A MEAN PERSON i thought of you with your high cheekbones, the sense of entitlement unparalleled, the superiority complex that hid much you had a gig and it had probably…
|
133741
|
|
133764
|
In a field of barley, I see you, ...
|
1337115
|
So I told her
think of it this way:
you’re my unlived life.
|
133774
|
The world is slick as alabaster, taking the guesswork out of the rain. Junction Road moves like thick grease under the tires of my '89 Skyhawk. The old car's making a clicking noise somewhere underneath the high-beam switch and the damn…
|
1337116
|
fanned lashes on rouged cheek
a glamorous sea creature
in violet perfume
|
133700
|
You cannot go back, you cannot go home, you cannot cannot cannot…Only in memory is it possible to travel back in time. We all imagine it. We relive happy moments, sad moments, we exist, time exists and it passes. We cannot stop it.
|
13371110
|
They wanted to go fresh water fishing, so I had to buy worms. None there in the saltwater town. Drove about 10 miles over the long bridge to cross the bay. I'd been there before. Walked in and a crusty, little skinny man got up from his chair. He: Watcha need? Me: Fresh…
|
133721
|
He and she are fucking while I watch. She's moaning deep desire and he's pounding flesh into flesh. I'm fully clothed, eyes attune to their fornication, studying. He comes inside of her; their bodies stiffen and then wriggle against one another. …
|
133771
|
|
13371511
|
When Lois finally found him down there, Johnny was wedged between a large rock and the trunk of an old, long since fallen, cottonwood tree. She said as she got to him, she heard his gurgling breath, fighting fiercely to stay alive. When she saw the deep, gathering, red…
|
1337117
|
You are a warm winter
Despite the presence of snow
|
133686
|
|
1336117
|
She had just done it in the backseat with the man she decided would be her father. Or maybe it was the cast of his eyes under the dim bar lights. Maybe she insisted that this had to be done, to relive the night under the stars, under a dented roof of a station…
|
133632
|
We were talking in the dark in my room. He lay on a mattress on the floor. He came for a sleepover.
|
133695
|
I never meant to shipwreck you,
I didn't even know I was singing out loud.
I just stood on my rock a little too boldly,
and hummed a tune you wanted to hear.
|
133630
|
Some of us, however, turn our secrets over in our souls, churning them with the fury of the howling winds of a January night. They are eroded and shaped and fine-tuned with the precision of a jeweler; the deeper and darker they are, the more brilliant of
|
133654
|
I know this much: right now I’m over a thousand miles from my brother. I’ve been watching the odometers, adding it all up.
|
133676
|
the late snow, though not welcomed...
|
133655
|
There’s someone in the audience who is immolating himself
Cutting his own leg over and over with a pen knife
And groaning: “Oh God, oh God”
And all I can think from up at the podium is
This guy must absolutely hate these poems
I am reading
|
133675
|
And right there beside me
That single wobbling
Snail-like trail of my heavy
French Horn case
|
133652
|
If there was another way to describe emptiness, I'd word the endlessness of the sky, of the ocean at low tide.
|
