1331 5 3
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She is a manifold of temporal flows.
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133154
|
I am trying very hard to rhyme,
and trying very hard not to.
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133120
|
Delightful days spent at the beach. Children building castles; as parents watched waves glistening under the afternoon sunlight. Sanderlings running with beaks down, hoping for a tasty morsel through the ebb and flow of tides. As time went by, briefcases,…
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1331109
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We’re on The Worm. I dread the part where the train goes under the bay. I hold my breath until we safely emerge.
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133153
|
It's not a funeral. Nobody to mourn over.
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133172
|
She pulled the book off its shelf. It meant something else now. He'd quote her in the mirror, at the backs of buses that kept her moving, something she'd said without saying. He would remember for them. She'd forget, without him, the way she wanted. Garland and lights were…
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133165
|
Clasped his hands behind his head to give a moment’s thought to love and how it had never quite clarified in his mind to run pure and sweet.
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133145
|
I sat at
the vast graveyard
of broken hearts
on the mending fence
of wonderment
unsealing the silence
of the wounds
I began to put the pieces
together
like a puzzle against
forgetting
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133177
|
The arithmetic of human experience/
is always a losing game for some. Poor Jane. Rich Dick.
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133152
|
It's morning, and the cold black hull of branches sets my resting pier, Amid this drizzle, underneath the poignant pain of birches, wrecked By floods of midyear grieving; wraithlike, Dawn's been becked To paint in shafts of faded rose that shades the fen…
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133120
|
"No idea yet, why it was so important, what could it possibly mean to her? Was it someone who she knew, a distant relative, a character for her novel, something was just so strangely haunting about it that she could see it even when she did not have it in
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133133
|
had I gotten home without knowing it? well . . .
|
133100
|
Reverend Peter Roman could stand it no more. He stopped his speech. He felt a fire burning through him, a hatred for humanity and all the weaknesses of beings not perfect before God. He stood a long while, staring at the congregation. Then, he slowly spok
|
133176
|
A phrase, a sentence, a stanza,/
sounds among the sums and lists/
and starts a scratched cascade/
of syllables and other approximations--
|
133163
|
I signed up for functional
I did not ask for this mixed bag
of broken glass
I have enough to swallow
|
133110
|
they say the sense of smell is the strongest sense connected to memory, but not for me
|
133000
|
Without light it is black.
|
133064
|
It's not stories the quiet lack, but inclination...
|
133044
|
a book of 5 poem-like things I made out of silly string and shot your way when you weren't exactly looking "..kisses are a far better fate/than wisdom."--E.E.CummingsContents:1.The Day's Thin Blue Swim-Suit2. The One Who Needed Let In Most3. I…
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133000
|
When we crossed the California/Oregon border, I had this
vivid image of sleeping bags filled with human bones. I shook
my head and the scene would not go away. The woods must be
full of dead campers, hitch hikers, run-a-ways, and black
teenage whores
|
133042
|
|
133043
|
Man, this bearskin rug was a big, awkward sonofabitch on his back....
|
133084
|
These days, you seem to disappear like bread tasted and devoured
|
133052
|
I’m up to my ass in social media.
|
133033
|
No preview available due to the brevity of the piece. In fact, this comment itself is longer than the piece.
|
133061
|
I am surprised that you’re not famous already. I remember sitting in your bedroom for hours just watching you while you wrote poetry. I was in awe of you, thinking you were going to be the next Dylan Thomas! Or Bob Dylan. Or Dylan Somebody! And I rememb
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13301411
|
I. The sun's corona. Empty boxes near the firehouse. Red birth. A bird's lost wing. II. The bitterness of littleness. Apples in a pile.Early love.A spider, swinging. III. A father's harshness.Twelve bills unpaid. Leaves in a crevice. A dream…
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133044
|
The consequences follow from here:
the shine of forbidden knowing
the apple soon offered to Adam
the twined Serpent’s hidden fangs
|
1330108
|
I call upon all cashiers in dungarees...
I call upon the baristas in rags...
I call upon those whose
sinister principles tax the weakness of their conscience...
I call upon all those deracinated by dreaming big...
|
132910
|
I remember a time when Calvin, my husband, was like Winnie the Pooh and I was a jar of fine Provençal honey. No amount of my sweetness could satisfy his craving for me. He would spread me on his toast with butter at breakfast and mix me with peanut butter
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