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the poems/
we never got to will remain,
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It leaves on a Saturday,suddenly, while you are raking leaves or taking out the trash.Those inevitable, boring things.You do not hear it go;it's been quiet before when it left certain rooms. It no longersleeps beside you, and you learnedlong ago that the bed was…
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this is your hair, this is your stare, this is your voice
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Okay, I’ll admit it, the earth was shaken on the world's underside, when you left for California. And I sometimes slept on the shores of Lake Michigan and Fox River for your tremendous thousand years’ charisma. To say I cried out in pain would be lettin
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Irony is written sarcasm. Sarcasm is spoken irony: the opposite of what is meant. Catholic irony in fiction seems deeper and more related to theme. Protestant irony starts with P as do other þing.
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Lullaby for a dragon baby who breaks the bough with bottled fists escapes the armored cradle stealing swords from terra cotta men to slash the Ming canopy and loose the butterflies that will free
Ho Chi Minh from the fire.
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The whole scene smells like paranoia.
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The Campus Socialists
Paul and Mary Jo lived in an apartment at the top of a long, dark flight of stairs that were so high, I remember as if it were yesterday thinking, the night she pushed him down the stairs, he would surely be dead by the time h
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I planned and planned. I followed the veterinarians around and I took vials of panda tranquilizers when they were not looking, and it was often that they forgot to look. The earth kept shaking, they were hungry, and many did not know what had become of th
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But even if the truth
Never sets me free
I'll know this ain't the end of me
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The Moon The hatch of the lunar module hissed as it opened, a few puffs of leftover water vapor escaped toward them in a sparkling white cloud that rapidly dissolved…
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I heard them calling my name. “Will passenger Karen Anderson please come to flight desk Six Fourteen? Flight 912 is ready for takeoff. This is your last call.”
“Mario, did you hear that?” I asked. “We’re on the wrong plane!”
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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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a soft wooden clatter, wind-battered reeds/bound to the banks of ditches rank,/ill-purposed waters slide into low swamps/whose waters into rivers seep and crawl.
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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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and the President didn't call.
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I don’t even want to think about Aethra shtupping Posiden and Aegeus
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Between the commercials, the local news is rampant with fusillade of bullets going raving mad, driven by some Machiavellian brainfuck, or bombshells smiling down with angels in black; emoticons of solid metal and pride. But you would put your faith in…
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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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Freedom brings its own fears.
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She did not know the passage of time, for she was just a bedraggled little kitty, but she stayed behind the lattice for many rising and settings of the Sun.
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There was a bird on the windowsill, a sparrow, its silhouette backlit by a view of Uptown. She remembered many sparrows during her forced trips to Mercy Hospital...That was all over now...
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Lying in the blissful glow of young television.
Idly sleeping, eyes open and ears closed.
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It was on the Fake News today, Oh boy
They built a bridge from Alaska to Siberia
Called the Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Instead of a wall
And Putin came riding bareback on a pink unicorn
Into the White House and renamed it
The White Horse,
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My relationship with Uzma exists on several levels, from basic to abstract, from animal magnetism to spiritual journey.
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The cornbread for dressing cools./
The cranberries boil with one cup each/
of sugar and water. The aromas are nice
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“Good to see you, old man,” Greg said. He was like that, an investment banker, a latter-day Tom Buchanan without the polo ponies, self-consciously fusty.
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First movement I. The town that I…
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