1425 6 3
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It is midnight in Utah, but I can’t tell. It always looks like midnight in a cave.
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142521
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Vietnam, Tet, and beaucoup Charlie
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142543
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The first time I ever held a gun, I was three years old...
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142522
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My Thursday head belonged to a former Miss Brazil named Rita.
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142511
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There was no need to drive. She could travel ten miles in ten minutes. She merely had to be careful not to step on any cars or trucks.
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142461
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142454
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I got no good hubcaps
My van is up on bricks
It's held together with duct tape
And a couple of crummy sticks
I caught the guy who did this
And tied him to a tree
I kicked him in the windpipe
And kicked him in the knee
I'm a man witho
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142400
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Slipping into the Sydney Harbour Tunnel like a nocturnal creature fleeing the light, tears stream down my cheeks, spilling from my lips, the pain too great to care about self-preservation. Drunk still, hands clenched, I strain to focus on the world fading into a blur of…
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142431
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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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142441
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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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142400
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The struggling creature opened its beak and let out a shrill cry before both parents moved in and, using their webbed feet, forced its head back under the surface.
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1424117
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She had just done it in the backseat with the man she decided would be her father. Or maybe it was the cast of his eyes under the dim bar lights. Maybe she insisted that this had to be done, to relive the night under the stars, under a dented roof of a station…
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142430
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Some of us, however, turn our secrets over in our souls, churning them with the fury of the howling winds of a January night. They are eroded and shaped and fine-tuned with the precision of a jeweler; the deeper and darker they are, the more brilliant of
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142440
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Then it started extruding tendrils and tying them all into intricate knots.
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142466
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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
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142421
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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…
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142442
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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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142474
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The stain upon / many others cannot be discerned.
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1424116
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fanned lashes on rouged cheek
a glamorous sea creature
in violet perfume
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142400
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Mayumi faced forward, channeled her Mana, and gathered a small pocket of air under hand. Soon the voice returned, rattling her mind.
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142400
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“Well in opposite heaven every time you make scrambled eggs the shells break into a million pieces, then you spend eternity picking them out of the yolk.”
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142465
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To listen is to feel embodied reason//
sing and dance with consummate grace
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142498
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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…
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142455
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She thinks this is the place she dreamed
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142400
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Over by the swimming pool singing - Hey hey it’s okay - A line from a song he heard - On the stereo when we were driving in the car - On the way to sign the papers to get - His grandfather released from the hospital
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142487
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He disrobes; shoes, socks,
shirt, belt, pants. He smells of hard work.
The nude whisper of everything else.
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1424115
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Blue skies greet us as we exit the forest . . .
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142432
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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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142386
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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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142362
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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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