1378 3 2
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To conceive of them separated was unthinkable to every wet-eyed soul at the burial.
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137854
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Writing opens doors to perception. For example, the glockenspiel smells of gardenias, but the catwalk is opening a can of Franklin stove. It emits fumes of fairyland and olive. And in the green and pleasant country of Scotland and England, vintage trains go…
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137874
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I remember going out to a restaurant with some guy and a friend of mine who brought her little boy along. And suddenly her boy said, “I want to hear the man talk.” Well, that stopped us. Smart kid, I thought. He was fed up hearing her women friends talk
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137822
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Fall came early that year. The edge in the air wasn't just the cold, raw wind cutting down the street — the unity and collective embrace briefly shared after September 11th had faded. The weight from…
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137811
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Salted sea of summer fingers- sand and salted skinmelt in me; vanilla ice cream lick- your lips; salty kiss saliva- sweet salt of semen run down my chin languid-salty sweat of you.
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137810
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She smiled at him. "You want to know the secret, that's why you want her to tell - not because you want her to be happy."
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137866
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And pity us, this generation of sighing:
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137810
|
Us kids in left field steal out bedroom windows after dark to pinch hit Lucky Strikes between first and second fingers, arc the glow of shop-lifted hot-boxed cigarettes over the chain link homerun fence sprawl on perfectly ridiculous grass passing a bottle…
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137864
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I try as much as I can to write but only in as much as you believe―am I successful.
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137811
|
I like violence /
because they refused to pay at attention to me /
as a child.
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137800
|
the first night we visited/ i stepped on a splinter/ while walking to the car/ and half-limped back,/ hiding a wince.
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137810
|
it is heavier than it looks with edges smoothed by the passage of time
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1378128
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My mother should have been a minister or a peace officer. Instead, she was a homemaker who ran the home like an agency. There were certain hard and fast rules.
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137832
|
She is not centered, but she finds her way.
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13781611
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On Monday, May 7, 2018, at the age of 67, I had a stroke.
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137844
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instead of gun metal deceit, sounds of malice;be a drop of rain.
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137832
|
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1377126
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Crouching like little children in a game of hide & seek, we entered the old house, slowly
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137721
|
Where are you going, boy who never was?
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137700
|
There was a motley assortment of customers in the restaurant. Mostly casually dressed young men and women who looked like freelancers of some persuasion.
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137756
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137763
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While most spread their time in other occupation, I traveled through books and grew my imagination. I knew endless bliss. I was a book eater. I would just devour books that I loved and slug through those I didn't, just to make myself eat the truths and li
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137700
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He bounds like a lunar explorer into the Edinburgh Castle, the goofy porcelain busts glaring at him with contempt.
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137711
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I lost my job but the government found me a new one. Now the government pays me to pretend I’m a travelling businessman. I fly around the country to imaginary meetings. It’s part of a project to make it look like the economy is doing well.
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137700
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Swat at those screeching children with tufts of harp-grass. Flail, mad eyed and sad sighed with all gleaming hope gone out of the daylight. Swat and screech swat and screech. We continue until their thick bark-like hides are smooth and polished. We sand them with…
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137721
|
“You think it’s a self-castrating suicide note or a self-righteous freedom speech?”
“Probably just the ramblings of a madman, pissed he lost a company baseball game.”
“Fuckin-A, Pete! Double-murder suicide for a baseball game? Ain’t nobody that craz
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137787
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I ask if anyone has a poem or a story they would like to read. Everybody's hand shoots up.
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137755
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They come to wipe themselves from my memory, but that, of course, is impossible. In this place, we are bound together, the long line of men who have killed me, and I.
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137784
|
His legs were pedaling hard and his heart was beating fast, He's got his scars; He can't outrun his past, Down the hill he goes, wind whipped his hair, a new style with each draft. He broke his brakes long ago; He cut the cable and ripped off the pads. He cried…
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137782
|
This is the poem you leave behind that you die in the middle of.
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