1272 4 3
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Cliffs are not all I've known, but I've seen them every day since I came to light. When I first broke out of the shell that protected me from feet and poisons, I pushed my way into darkness. It was soil. I could not have survived if it was light, and when I surfaced there…
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127223
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I will admit it. // I cannot write poetry / to save my life—
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127232
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As far as I can tell, all he eats is wedges of cake
from the plate on top of his blanket as he
lies there in bed, smoking cigarettes and
staring up at the painting of a pile of shoes.
Or else this is a real pile of shoes
building up beside the
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127242
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The air smells like dream, like farm shit, like the salty stalling of evolution.
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127233
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Once in a while I have the time of my life /
in this god-forsaken Earth:
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127279
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Used to be I'd keep busy. Dreadful the time I spend sitting, standing, staring. I lose track, now. I believe it's because he died. It gets hold of me. I'll see him half on half off his bed, a plaid blanket angled over his back and legs, held…
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127222
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The scared woman, she hides her flaws from the world.
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127212
|
Lovell saw his chance, and more quickly than anyone thought possible delivered a sharp blow to Linehan's hitherto untouched jaw. The Irishman collapsed, and stayed down for the full count of thirty. The courtyard was then filled with shouts of incredulit
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1272107
|
to us! Without it we are less than human and cannot guarantee your safe passage through our woods any more. Give us back the moon. It is the primary element in the makeup of our deepest breaths taken to invoke all cycles to continue. It contains…
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127266
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(no one need fear timidity in our tastes― /
we like trying new things, no matter our hastes!)
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127221
|
The woman leapt from the top of the burning building. The flames reddened the faces of the watching crowd. The heat pushed them back. The woman hit the ground. The crowd oooooed. If only I'd been a firewoman, I thought, with a ladder as tall as a building and a…
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127121
|
Where are you going, boy who never was?
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127164
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Mum and Dad are dead, though I'm the only person who has noticed. They're sipping their tea in the kitchen. Dad keeps coughing up maggots. Mum's face looks like a cracked mirror: I see myself in it, broken, dark. My brothers carry on as normal. They huddle by the TV,…
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127100
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John Davies paces nervously around an empty parking lot...
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127100
|
We at Cahiers must continually ask–is le cinema de kung fu pimping really, truly—as bad as it wanna be?
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127154
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Is there a homunculus in my brain guiding everything like the pilot of an airliner?
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127132
|
To conceive of them separated was unthinkable to every wet-eyed soul at the burial.
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127100
|
"That it was my stepdad's fault."
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127122
|
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127163
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" . . . the government works for the aliens now, taking over the world. That's why everything's so screwed up."
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127100
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His mother hated blue jays, hated them with a passion she usually reserved for no-count trash who drank beer on their front steps and worked on their cars in the street.
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1271145
|
I suggested when we passed the flesh shack that we turn around and that I go in and say to the sex workers that the Russians are fetching $3.5K per hour in Manhattan and it's private, unlike there at that road-side shack.
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127141
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Tiny skiers look like beetles/on a white bedspread. /We watch them fall to earth from/the high peaks and tell ourselves
this is the week that sealed it
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127164
|
|
1271159
|
Squeeze the Word into Flesh
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127132
|
Hi de ho, and hey, hey, hey; The farmer's daughter is made of hay. I went to touch her but she blew away, And noo ma hert is nae langer gay. Hi de hoo, and how do you do? The farmer's wife has a cold up her flue, And takes me away…
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1271136
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April spit its greeting, toe to head.
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127100
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Giant stars are beautiful, when you stand directly in front of them.But touching them, is a whole other story.Junior had touched one. A strong burning sensation flew through his arm and down his spine. A feeling of electrocution and burning at the same…
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127197
|
Some of the elderly men and women are coming forward....
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127173
|
Not the torn magazine page, not the smell of ink, not the sweat of palm nor the froth of irish spring
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