1445 14 7
|
At some point, you care/
just enough to wake each morning,
|
144500
|
The purple sweater brought out the blue in her eyes. Fantastic eyes made of ice, she was a stunner, and she knew it. I met her at Slabtown
|
144531
|
Sheep are very philosophical, I hear. Stop this hopeless dreaming.
|
144532
|
Boil (n.)––1. Pus-filled pustule inflammation of the skin, usually painful. 2. Slang boiled pus, bucket of (n. phrase)“Your asshole brain is a bucket of boiled pus.” (see also pus, SCOTTISH derogatory term for face.
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14441011
|
I fall in love with a second cousin at the picnic. I make sure I sit next to her.
|
144453
|
|
144430
|
Every town has one. Or one at the very least...
|
144433
|
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.
|
144431
|
Sweaty feet, drool from the weighty sleep of mid-afternoon naps, the inescapable perspiration of the South: all combine to create the entwined scent of socks and stale toothbrushes...
|
144474
|
Not all ideas are bad, just mine.
|
144461
|
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…
|
144432
|
Sirens wake me, screaming warnings in the dark.
|
144455
|
In an authentic Irish pub in Las Vegas where over much crowd noise the three of us are discussing Yeats, Joyce and Lady Gregory. We’re in an Irish pub after all, plus the fact we’re literature profs attending a Vegas academic conference.
|
144444
|
Lying on a high seat in the south study, this is what I see:
|
144421
|
Smiling at stones and chunks of earth pounding in...
|
144432
|
I didn't feel when you cut out my spine I'd been throwing up all night couldn't even smell the rust …
|
144487
|
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
|
144487
|
By the sixth - Dizz, Falstaff buzzed - Croons - The Wabash Cannonball
|
1444116
|
I suppose it was inevitable, This crashing of souls, This recognition of possibility to create. If we were younger, We would make a baby, The ultimate act of faith. Now it has to be something else, Nothing to force a track with night feedings, …
|
144498
|
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…
|
144411
|
My mother gave her all to convince him to be a politician. My sister begged on bleeding knees for him to give her head. I just needed somebody to help me find things.
|
1444117
|
You are a warm winter
Despite the presence of snow
|
144455
|
She thinks this is the place she dreamed
|
144444
|
I slide my CD toward Eric Burdon who sits, smiling and gracious and fatigued from Seattle traffic, at the table at Silver Platters, where I have just purchased ‘Til Your River Runs Dry, and stood in a line of old gray heads to have him sign it. I remove my hat and…
|
1444115
|
Blue skies greet us as we exit the forest . . .
|
144442
|
Better not hand me that iPhone. I'll look up every damned thing in it.
|
14431511
|
sentinels in a frost-blackened field
|
144341
|
This poem first appeared in “Walt’s Corner” of The Long Islander, founded by Walt Whitman in 1838.
|
144386
|
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…
|
144355
|
I opened the closet door and there stood Eugène Ionesco lost among our clothes.
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