1375 5 2
|
“My name is Violet,” I add. I am trying to stop lying. Going without cigarettes has been easier.
|
137543
|
He began to chop the powdery substance and separate it into segments.
|
1375127
|
If you find a lone, sad honeybee, buy a Habitrail cage and make it your new pet.
|
137555
|
|
137592
|
i think god composed afternoons with crayons
|
137400
|
I traced the vein that rose in her temple when she got angry all the way along her body until it ashed out varicosely on her smooth calf.
|
137410
|
Then there she is, and she makes me love-sad; it's a vehement, absolute, hard love-sad no one else needs to understand, though they can see; it's an emotion so concrete it's felt from the chest, not from a tenuous concept called heart.
|
13741610
|
We're in a sedate forest next to a boisterous beach. The sky is sea green above the trees and forest green above Sinepuxent Bay. Chaste squirrels are keeping a lookout for bad-boy gulls. Kids on circus bikes ride out of the woods into their bathing suits. The…
|
137400
|
“I swear that man is a force of nature.” This was her mother's way of describing her father whenever her mother came too close to the precipice. While growing up, she could never allow herself to fully acknowledge the meaning behind her mother's…
|
137443
|
destroy the day
rip up the track
jump in the water
eat nothing but bugs
|
137452
|
Someone desperately dials a number.
Iris, draped tight.
|
137443
|
The one-legged crow was back in the yard again. It was there yesterday and maybe before, but yesterday was the first time I noticed it. I've been using my binoculars lately. It is interesting to me...to bring things closer. And it's not just birds, but other things like the…
|
137465
|
You don’t want to tango with me, she said.
|
137477
|
i waited for the moon last night for hoursfell asleep with the record player on and dreamedof rain running downgutters of sea glass housesthe sun nudged me awakeand she served me toasthe's not serious,she saidhe's half baked,full of…
|
137422
|
|
137400
|
the odd stone stands/taller than trees/it protrudes from the young forest/an old mecca but smooth
|
137400
|
We transplant helix° splices and
shoot back to meet our former selves, zip the
scrolls, and save the world. Then you said spin
so I twisted my jumper over and
over in
endless folds like lips, like vaginas, like
seacreatures
|
137432
|
The young monk rose early to jog,
his appetites trailing like
cats in heat.
|
137353
|
you look like
the insides of my cheeks
chewed.
|
137341
|
His only sibling had passed a few years back and his mother was the only one left of a gaggle of 7 brothers and sisters and their spouses. The turning of the generations, from birth to grave, was always a bit like the tilling of the ancestral soil. A new
|
137341
|
In praise of the colorful flock with crowns
of teased cotton candy rising high above
Modular walls, stalled operating systems
staling coffee and pale corner offices
|
137311
|
Sometimes you wait by the mailbox and he doesn't come. It doesn't come, the letter, the talisman from another world you've been waiting for, and you give up. You finally open…
|
137321
|
“The minute I stopped wondering about
the meaning of life is when I
finally started enjoying life.”
|
137341
|
the cocksucking of strategic death planning
|
137375
|
Forgive the doctor/
his hypocrisy -
|
137332
|
Over the last years of her life, my mornings began when Mom decided to play. Sitting on her black, ball-and-claw stool, she'd raise the key cover, stretch her neck and shoulders, and take slow, deliberate breaths. A deep, meditative state descended over the room and…
|
137300
|
“Now, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is a hit of the eighties.”
|
137332
|
I guess it was, you know, a daze thing: He, lightly drunk, turning red in parts of his head, in his cheeks mostly, and his chest, to which my eyes were drawn because of his v-neck douchebag shirt; and I, sleepy beyond belief, sustained like a zombie only
|
137352
|
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…
|
137361
|
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
|
