1565 4 2
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Anatoly Gringovitch took a swallow of beer, thoughtfully put the cap on his Ferrari da Varese custom fountain pen, and launched into his story:
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156561
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I'm not dying. What is it called if you think you might have Hypochondria but you really don't? I'm worried that's what I have. Is it cold in here? Or is it me, dying?
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156500
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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.
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156544
|
Jenny was certain nobody saw her when she took the slinky shirt from her father's store. It was blue with buttons shaped like cherries, the fabric light as air. She balled it up in her hand. Her father owned a chain of boutiques called Body Electric. The racks were…
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156521
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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
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1565128
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the two become one where/
all things end,
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1565134
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So I've got this head in a jar and I'm not sure who it belongs to.
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156575
|
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156554
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They have their own homes to fill with bought and sold dreams. Their own babies to care for and feed. The world is big enough to have more layers than you can ever imagine. The lights will show you a way when you have turned too dark for your own…
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156585
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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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15651413
|
Frenchie hustled waffle irons.
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1565109
|
...clash of gulls
wend upwards, disappearing into grey
night's high tide recedes
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156566
|
And here’s a picture of you
at the end of the line
to the great toilet of
fiction, waiting to
relieve yourself, quick
before the poetry gets to you.
Or worse, the actual
poets.
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156533
|
The hotel sits on the highest point in Shimla: a place of cedar-scented air, an aggressive monkey population, and summer houses left by the British Raj.
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156474
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these tender girls tears recent / with stained souls, brides of dead, / cadaverous Erebus; unguarded ladder / long the down going…came Anticlea then
|
156495
|
I recalled the one night stand I'd had with the girl one balmy summer night in Minneapolis. We lay on my bed in the moonlight, and I touched the nipples of her tiny breasts with the thumb and pinkie of one hand.
|
156410
|
Another noise, softer than the first: swish, thud. You are still. The house is very loud tonight.
|
156475
|
This late November day there are too many leaves filling the yard.
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156486
|
I'm working through the rocky pine cones so you don't have to. I'm stepping over the little dreaming people in your dreams so we don't wake them with our loud and coming loose footprints. The poem passes by like a heartbreaking train…
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156462
|
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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156455
|
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156420
|
My brother Herb married his high school sweetheart right after completing college. This was a girl named Beryl, whom he'd met originally in Mr. Reinert's marching band at York High School in Elmhurst. I remember one day in particular in the middle of the
|
156467
|
The currents of events/
strip the molecules from cartilage,//
reverse polarity of ventricles—
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156453
|
He looked like a black paper doorway pasted onto a painting of summer.
|
156443
|
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…
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1564117
|
You are a warm winter
Despite the presence of snow
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156400
|
“She’s very sick. She’s dying,” and he smoothed my hair along my neck.
“It’s leukemia. A very rare type,” his hand reached my shoulder and stopped there.
“She only has a few months.”
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156400
|
Osama couldn’t see any reason he shouldn’t retire. No way he could top BP Oil in the Gulf or Pacific Gas & Electric in San Bruno.
|
1564108
|
He knows I talk to angels, what he would call angels. I don’t talk to him.
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156352
|
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...
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