1133 15 5
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"And yet she always went on writing, even when nobody cared if she did or not: if she stopped, she told an imaginary prosecutor in her diary, 'I will not have earned death.' "
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113344
|
Once there was a real honest to God holy spiritout there that was a gift of loving kindness meant for everyone to share; unfortunately, it was given to all the wrong people, or the wrong people simply stole it. Either way the wrong people are…
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113332
|
I’m glad they put the wall up. When it gets a little humid around here, I can smell those damn people.
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113331
|
Flowing, Flown In the field stands a jealous man with fifteen eyes stored inside the cuffs of well-worn khaki pants. His pockets pull with clinking dimes…
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113333
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The idea of an infinite textual universe occurs in many places in the works of Jorge Luis Borges. The contexts and permutations of language, which others had held to be perhaps infinite (allowing themselves to use such an imprecise term), that…
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113332
|
Rose was the easiest lay in the Fletcher Memorial Home For The Aged.
|
113356
|
In my life when I am pursued /
by some wildly delicate thing
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113363
|
On the phone I asked my mother how she was doing.
“I’m getting old,” she said. “Going slow. But getting there. I’m ninety-four!”
My mother was always 94, when she was really 93. I remember she was 93 right after she turned 92. And 92
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113345
|
This is your mystery, your story Full of beauty and all-encompassing loveA brushstroke washes the canvas cleanYou start over with a new directionDreaming of me as you paint your wordsWriting just like Keats, Shelley and BrontëAbout sorrow, rain and the wheels of passion
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113387
|
he wound up hating the woman he betrayed in his heart for betraying him in her body
|
113322
|
Inspired by the photographic work of Susan Lipper. Grapevine series, 1988-92.
http://susanlipper.com/gv_23.html
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113300
|
The door shuts slowly to something that’s allegedly mine
and it sits there and waits until I come home
just like you.
|
113343
|
|
113342
|
you happen to me like motorcycle tricks
|
113322
|
Everybody knew the buildings were trying to kill us.
|
113354
|
You can tell your doctor the truth
Even if no one else will stop and listen
He or she may have a balm for it
To help make it go away
Or at least go into remission
Remission is the staging area for Lies
Corporate and otherwise
We don’t have
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113363
|
The moon was out. A bouncing ball but suspended. I shall never have a baby, she said. I am not prepared to go through that pain. Also, I for sure would not raise them up if I had them with religion, which is just so much superstition. I'll be a fellow this…
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113221
|
Zoë’s divorce lawyer, Arno Aghajanian (“Double A” to his friends), sat at his desk in Los Angeles reading a copy of the Hollywood Intelligencer.
|
1132117
|
The condemned, arrested/
and convicted as a consequence/
of cheerlessness, must be prepared
|
113200
|
There is a feeling in my hands,
fingers,
a restive, potential energy,
drawing inward, reaching
|
113231
|
Esmée sat alone at a table on the terrace at Marina Jack’s in Sarasota. She had been there ten minutes and no waitress had approached her.
|
113232
|
So do you read my writing?I text youI need to know whatyou like betterThe bloodor the gutsThat's what it is.You see Iput it out therefor you.That's not what it saysbut I know the truth.Am I smart enoughgood enoughdo you think it's crapbecause anyone can like it…
|
113200
|
“Is that an erect annual plant in your codpiece, Mr. Flax, or are you just glad to see me?”
|
113254
|
this is where we end --
the exorbitant eye of forgotten days.
|
113220
|
“We’re prisoners,” Sean reminded the guard. “Prisoners of your military.”
“You have never been treated as such.” Captain Hughes looked around the bar. “This festival is a celebration of you, of all of you. We pride ourselves on ou
|
113250
|
You wouldn’t believe an organ the size of a heart could scream like a nine-year-old sissy girl but mine did.
|
113244
|
unwrapping
the gauze from her wrists....
|
11321710
|
It is a day of swallows and grasshoppers, of white clouds and suntanned arms. In the yellow field wheat ears burn, lit by fantasies. One of wheat, one of rye. Summer love, holiday love is in the air. Under the thickness of the harvest, their roots search, call each other.…
|
113232
|
I advertised in the local paper for a model.
|
113200
|
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.
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