1563 3 2
|
#2 The Typewriter Inside You by Harmon Gentle—I found this one at a garage sale when I was 15. Intended as a manual for sharpening one's typing skills, by the third chapter it became obvious that Mr. Gentle's sanity had slipped, and that rather than mastering the…
|
1563119
|
A cheap pocket knife was the only sharp I carried in my backpack and they allowed me that. The man with the pot tattoo on his neck said, “All of us here needs some type of knife. You gotta cut up your food. We don't…
|
156398
|
Regret takes the shape of little clouds ...
|
156300
|
She can still be normal, says Momma, knowing my sister can’t hear, forgetting I can.
|
156222
|
The light of day is screaming,
shook by the calls of howler monkeys,
their low roar hanging in the salt,
in the black sand riding the wind,
as Playa Negra outstretches its infinite arms.
|
1562129
|
I smelled the bleach of burst anemones
the sweet arousal of the Dungeness crabs
the seaweed of sour twigs and feces
|
156211
|
I dream about the boy in The Neverending Story, the gate of mirrors, and the Nothing, a dark cloud that floats in the sky, takes away everything.
|
156210
|
The parrots woke Eddie up. That and Rocker snoring in the twin bed. A thousand parrots flying over the motel? They squawked, God how they…
|
156211
|
The dance draws deeper
whirling witches weaving rhymes
The fire spits fierce in the falling rain
soon the spell will spill from secret times
|
156252
|
He spoke the "Why" and it stuck out its tail. He tripped and fell with his face wedged between the W. She kept the answer in her chest so the words wouldn't crowd him where he lay. The "Why" found its way back into his cheeks and puffed his face out like a disease. He…
|
156200
|
The young man pulls out his wallet, grabs a couple of bills and stops short of handing them to the bedraggled man. “So how do I know you’re not going to go out and buy some crack with this money?”
|
156221
|
I think we could be twins, our hands hitching us together like paper dolls, our parkas making blobby round balloon shapes as outlines for our bodies. I imagine each of us holding onto someone else, and the line continuing on from there until we have a cha
|
1562109
|
...clash of gulls
wend upwards, disappearing into grey
night's high tide recedes
|
156287
|
he wound up hating the woman he betrayed in his heart for betraying him in her body
|
15621711
|
...when they entered eager lungs hungry from deep and sweaty love
|
156276
|
|
156243
|
Soon, out of the womb ‘down there' is nuance. It guides you, like a legality, like your own breathing, in and out of overtone, hardcore hodgepodges, those inklings near sacrosanct beyond breakfront negligees and neo-negligence leading the good life. Isn't it…
|
156241
|
The most unoriginal, trite and hackneyed story ever written!
|
156232
|
The voice on the other end mumbles, not forming words, but I understand: I am to be the starting third baseman for the Detroit Tigers.
|
156142
|
Anatoly Gringovitch took a swallow of beer, thoughtfully put the cap on his Ferrari da Varese custom fountain pen, and launched into his story:
|
156152
|
The cold and the ice’ve really stoked a fire in those old bones of his. He runs with the gait of a racer, front legs straight out—each extension producing a crack like Jack London spitting into the cold...
|
156111
|
Summer bakes the metal playground slide to ripples. Still, kids line up. Sadists, all of them. Lucky enough to choose pain. Max feels it every breath, unwanted.
|
156122
|
You have such a complicated mind /
for refusing to believe in God /
just like any damned liberal /
whose fingerprints /
crowd the faces of a thousand /
dollar bills /
being passed around your great nation...
|
156133
|
The shit just doesn't want to come off.
|
156100
|
Bruce Springsteen begins singing from the loud speaker he was bruised and battered and couldn’t tell what he felt.
|
156110
|
My name is Jeremy, and I am in love with a zombie.
|
156150
|
"And then I, and I believe,
I alone, saw
this small child
run..."
|
156166
|
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
|
156100
|
mis-placed
the change
she goes looking for.
her folks
missed another hour...
her worth-while spent wasting
the voice wouldn’t leave the leaves alone.
|
156110
|
Another noise, softer than the first: swish, thud. You are still. The house is very loud tonight.
|
