1441 7 7
|
Harvey C. Hamby was drunk. Usually he held his liquor well, but tonight he was off his form. Stumbling over an ottoman, he landed on the floor in a sodden sprawl. As he fell, his left foot shot out behind him and socked Glenda Steinberg in…
|
144133
|
I reach out and grab a can of soup with each hand and spin them around to dive into this much-heralded sodium situation. It's a landslide. I almost smile as I put low sodium back and continue to hold tightly onto regular.
|
144187
|
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
|
144187
|
By the sixth - Dizz, Falstaff buzzed - Croons - The Wabash Cannonball
|
1441116
|
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, …
|
144111
|
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.
|
144131
|
Sheep are very philosophical, I hear. Stop this hopeless dreaming.
|
144062
|
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…
|
144032
|
Michiko stood in front of Steinway Hall on West 57th Street.
|
144086
|
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…
|
144031
|
My beloved lets me crawl into bed
and put my feet on him
since his skin is
warm and hot like a fire roaring from within
his soft flesh.
|
144055
|
“If your work is good you will get published. Just keep at it."
|
144055
|
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
|
144042
|
|
144051
|
There was no provision for keeping the post on the door, but I did not have the fingernails to pry it off.
|
144021
|
Vietnam, Tet, and beaucoup Charlie
|
144032
|
I didn't feel when you cut out my spine I'd been throwing up all night couldn't even smell the rust …
|
144030
|
blackberry pie and huckleberry wine and litte Maria with her summerset bangs
|
144020
|
Now it's late. I am hanging upside down from a rope coiled around my crushed left ankle, the pain too sharp to be really felt, as the excess blood to my head makes my thoughts fuzzy. I am almost two meters from the rock face, thirty-five hundred meters above sea-level, the…
|
144064
|
I woke up to the humming
of an empty space in the shape of a sweatshirt,
|
1440117
|
You are a warm winter
Despite the presence of snow
|
1440115
|
Blue skies greet us as we exit the forest . . .
|
143901
|
Galloping people, tangled in ballets of hot love, weaving in and out, making a canvas of it.
|
143955
|
I opened the closet door and there stood Eugène Ionesco lost among our clothes.
|
143965
|
I know someone in need of healing.
|
143931
|
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...
|
143933
|
She calls me by my name. She says I am her daughter.
|
143921
|
At eight o' clock: as, drawn by many bells, The patchwork congregation lopes and stalks, To churches far from serenade of shells To storms, we leave behind the windblown walks, And sails of youth, to glide through liquid hells, A temporal…
|
143962
|
Speaking of stiff nipples, I heard you once wanted to become a painter, because of your fondness for nipples. Feeling like Gauguin and his little Polynesian women/girls, are we? So, you're going to try to out-paint God, are you, Mr. Sistine Chapel of the
|
143964
|
In a field of barley, I see you, ...
|
