1554 5 3
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Don reports everything to Uzma and Rasheed, I'm aware of that. It doesn't bother me. I'm not hiding anything from them or anyone else.
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155443
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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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155400
|
The streets were filled with animals of the forest. All in a panic trying to find a direction. Mixed among them were members of various Clans that lived in the forest.
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1554118
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At the conference her boss showed off his knowledge of wines.
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155421
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I remember sitting there on the first unfinished rooftop, watching you building houses out of words. You hammered in grammar and punctuation; you said these things needed to be hammered in by hand. You drove the long straight exclamation …
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155443
|
I was walking my Belgian Waffle-Hound
Past the Belgian waffle shop
I found a penny on the ground
And did a tiny little hop
I spun around and went inside
The Belgian waffle shop
And bought a little waffle
For my Belgian Waffle-Hound
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155485
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In the diffuse light of early morning you wear a sweat suit maybe and stand in front of a model-kitchen counter in a model-home kitchen
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15541816
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Gossip Betty Martini divorces husbands when they least expect it. On a seeming whim, she pays a visit to dear Arnold, who keeps her papers handy in his top desk drawer. She initials here and there, signs with a…
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155487
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he wound up hating the woman he betrayed in his heart for betraying him in her body
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155486
|
I wrote her a poem.She said, “I hate poetry.” I said, “OK, just read the words then."
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155465
|
I found a diseased fish / wedged between some boulders near the pier
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1554119
|
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…
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155498
|
Regret takes the shape of little clouds ...
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1554108
|
He knows I talk to angels, what he would call angels. I don’t talk to him.
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155431
|
Sheep are very philosophical, I hear. Stop this hopeless dreaming.
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155311
|
Behold! Passion fruit!Aureolin sun condensedRolls off palm and tongue.Spurn taut rounded skinWait for wrinklesRipeness revealed, resplendent —The pinnacle of worth.
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155311
|
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.
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1553910
|
When the dark shadows of his limp eyes told us life was slowly seeping away, stolen by his stroke, his wife signed the “DO NOT RESUSCITATE” order and, tearfully leaving the room, she turns, asking a final question, “Think a needy family could use his…
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155310
|
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…
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155350
|
"And then I, and I believe,
I alone, saw
this small child
run..."
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155340
|
Then it started extruding tendrils and tying them all into intricate knots.
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155321
|
But behind the shops (and the many pubs), at the back of the narrow cottage fronts which line the wynds are secret courtyards, surprising gardens and more light than ever imagined.
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155311
|
A mundane endeavor depicted as a quest. Try it, you'll like it!
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15532110
|
I approached him slowly. His voice was soft and raspy. He said, "Kneel down my son, I've been expecting you."
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155342
|
The first and easiest reason was that he never hit me. Well, if he never hit me, then how could it possibly be abuse? Never mind the threats to stab me in the neck. He was only angry. He really didn't mean that. Never mind he restrained me, or cornered me
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155362
|
We’re going to talk about our future like the Rick Dees Weekly Top 40. Like there are 40 great songs this week about our future.
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1553109
|
...clash of gulls
wend upwards, disappearing into grey
night's high tide recedes
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155341
|
The most unoriginal, trite and hackneyed story ever written!
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155300
|
She can still be normal, says Momma, knowing my sister can’t hear, forgetting I can.
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155344
|
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…
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