1440 9 9
|
Its odors of quicklime/
and pyre-smoke will curl/
commingled in acrid air.
|
144042
|
Better not hand me that iPhone. I'll look up every damned thing in it.
|
143900
|
When He had built the Universe, there was no greater joy in putting it together. The angels themselves were perfect constructs of concept and design, embodiment of breathing principle over particle waves. They each had their purpose; each mortar or a supp
|
14391010
|
I dreamt I was raped the other night. Sometimes it was me, that is, and sometimes it was another woman with a dark bouffant hair-do. Definitely outside though and the hulking back of the man was covered by a charcoal wool…
|
1439115
|
As air warms and warm/
winds stir, green becomes the force/
that surges the plains.
|
1439126
|
Have you heard this yet? The daughter flew home to care for the mother, whose pump is still tick ticking—though now with aid—which means she leaves the kitchen when the microwave clicks on.
|
143920
|
I can't believe it's Frankie, but there he is at a table on the far side, just in front of the big picture window. I hold the menu close to my face and peek again over the top, watching as he reaches under the white linen tablecloth to plant…
|
143961
|
I would like to go back (with spade, pick, soft bristles), and sift through time and layers, brush away the intervening years, and find: the tooth, knocked out by my then best friend, when we were seven, careening downhill in my father's wheelbarrow on Boscobel…
|
143942
|
|
143962
|
|
143921
|
Vietnam, Tet, and beaucoup Charlie
|
143944
|
Lying on a high seat in the south study, this is what I see:
|
143975
|
Cicadas shed their skin as they grow, leaving crisp hollowed out remains on tree trunks, fence posts, and the undersides of upturned leaves. Tommy and I would collect them in the early morning and stick them to our clothes like brooches. I used to like Tommy,…
|
143987
|
The winter’s too warm for the bears to sleep,
and they get up in the middle of the night
with insomnia and wander about the streets
in their pajamas, knocking over garbage cans,
looking for a midnight snack of some kind.
They’re getting kind o
|
143998
|
I don't think you understand. A sad boy doesn't just die inside, slowly, he becomes withdrawn from certain types of lovely youthful reasoning out loud, accustomed to feeling what is expected, graded, just to be allowed to survive another…
|
143853
|
|
1438158
|
Go diddle in the sand//
to save some other sinner/
a death of stones.
|
143831
|
I will show you how, in the spring,
the sidewalks here
look like a crossword puzzle resting under
a glass of lemonade,
|
143841
|
This poem first appeared in “Walt’s Corner” of The Long Islander, founded by Walt Whitman in 1838.
|
143886
|
It was your present world that seemed more than mad to me. Your polished stiff brown shoes that always squeaked like mice, while the latest rude Bombers bubbled up in their comfortable Dart-board garages like apple pies…
|
143876
|
Get comfortable with criticism
|
143843
|
leaves, starlings and other words fall into thickets of orange or green grasses or tendrils or snakes
|
143821
|
The blaring scream from my alarm clock suffices as my wake-up call. It disrupts me from my dream state that I so rarely get the privilege to experience any more. I've always loathed that alarm clock, so I turn it off in the most sensibly aggressive manner I know how: just…
|
143866
|
With their brightly-colored bits of
found string
woven into the walls of their nests
to teach their baby birds
what the worms of the future
will look like.
Somewhat like the
cave paintings of Lascaux
for early man in France,
when hunti
|
143832
|
Billy took acid and blatzed into a 7-11, holding his dick like he hoped the store guy would think the thing was an Uzi. The guy laughed his ass off, reached under the counter, and pulled out a .38…
|
143833
|
“Sandy likes the way Bob spanks, when he’s done she gives him thanks."
|
143842
|
If this road could answer
I would ask her what it is like
to follow the path
of the rippleshimmery river
for too many miles
through the slowly ghosting towns
and the corncovered landscapes
of the dying Midwest
|
143832
|
Sirens wake me, screaming warnings in the dark.
|
1438134
|
So I've got this head in a jar and I'm not sure who it belongs to.
|
143894
|
happily fling Molotov cocktails//
against ICE agents in armored vehicles/
and sing the pain of their burning deaths/
as triumph against asininity.
|
