1465 2 2
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Suddenly I'm not feeling it anymore. /
Poetry has become insufficient. /
I can't do it like I used to.
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146522
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I do not know the species of birds here. /
The two I see playing on the balcony at night /
I can never call back.
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1465115
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As air warms and warm/
winds stir, green becomes the force/
that surges the plains.
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146540
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Then it started extruding tendrils and tying them all into intricate knots.
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146500
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A life in NYC was one I always dreamed of but I found myself turning into a bitter, sarcastic person who was losing the ability to see the silver lining in just about anything.
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146561
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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…
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146578
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In and out of morphine dreams, he flies through the unfinished roof of Illinois sky. Below, matchbox-sized farm machines. A silo becomes his father's thermos, the silver-capped tower from which he stole sips at ten, his first secret. Back …
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146532
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I am useless. A freak. Different. They all hate me now. All except you, of course. You will never leave me. Never. I'd kill them all if I could. Every single one. But twenty-four, that's a lot even for me. I'm so sick of the cliques; the special groups and hastily strung…
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1465157
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Her voice gets screechy as she talks of the boy he was caught fondling in the bathroom of a bowling alley. The worst part: the dumb schmuck doesn’t even bowl.
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146500
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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.
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146462
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INSTRUCTIONS: To all students, please address your index card: "To the Finder of this Balloon." Beneath that, write something that will encourage the finder to email you back. Then tape the index card to your balloon's string.Happy Ballooning! To the Finder…
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146453
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146452
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Once there was a man who wrote in code. He was comfortable among substitutions
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146433
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For me, it was that kind of moment. I got to come back. I had been here before and now, well now, I could come back. I had a chance to do it all again, bigger, better and well, just better. I hoped I could remember all that I learned the first time.
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1464102
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146431
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I will show you how, in the spring,
the sidewalks here
look like a crossword puzzle resting under
a glass of lemonade,
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146476
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Get comfortable with criticism
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146431
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"Look Emily, I’m charging your solar powered calculator and helping you relieve your dependence on foreign oil."
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146442
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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
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146443
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No pain is private. How can it be?
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146420
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Each had jostled and laboured for his or her place upon the blunt outcrop, in the cold persistent darkness, where the outcrop was merely something that had fallen and not quite been washed away.
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146422
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My Thursday head belonged to a former Miss Brazil named Rita.
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146451
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It’s as she reaches into the fridge for the carton of half-and-half with the grainy waxy photo of the little girl—Last Seen 10/2/06—that the memory surfaces:
“Hey. That’s mine.”
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146386
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Our painter man was killed by a bunch of snotty kids who were making fun of him. A gun went off. What is a noodle to do? He wasn't sitting alone in his world, anymore. Where was his famous straw hat? His trusty pipe? He desperately needed to smoke…
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146310
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The doctors said, when she was born, that the gills would eventually fade away on their own. Nothing to fear, they said; no more unusual than the rare child born with a tail, or a dense pelt of fur, or a single sharp tooth jutting from its new pink gums.
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146344
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1463158
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Go diddle in the sand//
to save some other sinner/
a death of stones.
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146341
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This poem first appeared in “Walt’s Corner” of The Long Islander, founded by Walt Whitman in 1838.
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146343
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When I met Gregor Samsa he was still a cockroach, erratic and skittish whenever the light came on. We often spoke in the dark. I empathized with the man. I mean bug. Ok. That isn't fair. You can't call a man a bug because he chirps and eats dried skin cells. A…
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146364
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After the Tokyo experience, Frank and Michiko decided that when she went on extended tours, Frank would accompany her.
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