1483 11 5
|
Blue skies greet us as we exit the forest . . .
|
148264
|
I'd wear my pajamas too, fitting for the big sleep
|
148297
|
Sex is a fetish war --
a battle of trinkets of desire
|
148222
|
At a candlelit table near the back of the restaurant, Jack and Lois greeted the waiter as he delivered their drinks, a diet coke for him, and for her, a vodka and cranberry. He apologized for the slow bar service and promised to return in a moment to take their…
|
148243
|
leaves, starlings and other words fall into thickets of orange or green grasses or tendrils or snakes
|
148250
|
"And then I, and I believe,
I alone, saw
this small child
run..."
|
1482126
|
Have you heard this yet? The daughter flew home to care for the mother, whose pump is still tick ticking—though now with aid—which means she leaves the kitchen when the microwave clicks on.
|
148266
|
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
|
148254
|
this is where we end --
the exorbitant eye of forgotten days.
|
148251
|
There was no provision for keeping the post on the door, but I did not have the fingernails to pry it off.
|
148221
|
Vietnam, Tet, and beaucoup Charlie
|
148232
|
I am useless. A freak. Different. They all hate me now. All except you, of course. You will never leave me. Never. I'd kill them all if I could. Every single one. But twenty-four, that's a lot even for me. I'm so sick of the cliques; the special groups and hastily strung…
|
148264
|
She stiffens and blusters and roars
Not like a storm,
Not like a lion.
Like a badger, caught in the steel jaws of a trap.
|
148295
|
We got a sandwich at Mr. Pickle's, but they cut the sandwich in the plastic. Plastic wrap.
|
1482117
|
You are a warm winter
Despite the presence of snow
|
148144
|
|
1481179
|
A woman who is, say, a culinary arts champion or an heiress devoted to literature such as Bryher (Annie Winifred Ellerman) or Peggy Guggenheim might be able to turn me on, turn me out, turn me around.
|
148141
|
This poem first appeared in “Walt’s Corner” of The Long Islander, founded by Walt Whitman in 1838.
|
148152
|
We talk of his time in the jungle.
|
148142
|
If white t-shirts are only an SPF of 8, she couldn’t even imagine what a white nylon-mesh umbrella on this godforsaken beach might be in terms of protection.
|
148100
|
You shine brightest under a starlit skyThe moon reflects your beautyAs the wind sings your name sweetlyIt was under the heavens that we promised togetherThat I'll hold your hand and you'll be mine forever... You glow brightest when the sun is at its highestYour radiant…
|
148142
|
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
|
148178
|
In and out of morphine dreams, he flies through the unfinished roof of Illinois sky. Below, matchbox-sized farm machines. A silo becomes his father's thermos, the silver-capped tower from which he stole sips at ten, his first secret. Back …
|
148162
|
|
1481103
|
Words are looking ever so strange today
like a hole in space
a wind in a cloud
a face superimposed over a mountain
|
148143
|
Nights this husband returned home still hungry sometimes, even for her forearms against his own
|
1481116
|
fanned lashes on rouged cheek
a glamorous sea creature
in violet perfume
|
148175
|
Cicadas shed their skin as they grow, leaving crisp hollowed out remains on tree trunks, fence posts, and the undersides of upturned leaves. Tommy and I would collect them in the early morning and stick them to our clothes like brooches. I used to like Tommy,…
|
148112
|
I was an alcoholic for ten years, starting in my early twenties and continuing into my thirties. Then finally, after many attempts, I got myself straightened out. My son's birth finally did it for me. It wasn't like a switch flipped in the delivery room…
|
148153
|
He looked like a black paper doorway pasted onto a painting of summer.
|
