1183 2 2
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I was so messed up
when you left me,
and I admit I went around
searching the faces
of the crowd
for the man who
filled your womb.
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118332
|
The retina was burning, the liquid had dried up, and the veins bursting. My eyes bled. But I kept them open. The sound was like nails on glass, screeching endlessly. Coming close to me louder, harder, faster.
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118310
|
Believe me, I would run if I could, but there seems to be a low haze of molasses clinging to my ankles.
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118385
|
I know you probably don’t want to hear any more of this nudist stuff about my family and all, but this Reamer guy was a red-faced German boozehound if there ever was one. He married my brother’s ex-wife Beryl, after Harris left her to her cheap red jug wi
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118340
|
Sometimes I think there's an octopus in my stomach. In the mornings it stretches and droops its lazy head to one side — It suctions it's tentacles to the walls of my belly and pulls them together forcing me To gag, and vomit what we didn't digest of the…
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118333
|
my pilgrim tongue
on the map of
your body
seeks sanctuary
|
118353
|
The cats sniff at the small opening,/
one by one, in a furtive casualness./
They think the outside air is sweet
|
118332
|
My parrot Poe freezes when a crow soars outside the window the same way I do when you approach my door. You come knocking late at night. What do you want this time? I yell. To come in you say, please. Go the fuck away, I respond but you keep…
|
118342
|
The butterscotch on that painting makes me want to lick the canvas.
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1183155
|
Her captors allowed her the use of the toes of one foot. It was hard to pretend she was numb—as if playing an artic game indoors. With the ball of her foot, she primed the canvas. Her big toe acted as a fan brush, the rest were sable, flat, or pointy. She told…
|
118320
|
The possum is sneering with truth. I can smell the blood under his fingernails. He has seen it all, the backwoods distilleries and the back porch propane grilles. He has slept under the beds of whores and kings alike.
|
1183108
|
toe and hand-/
holds against/
the shear cliff
|
118363
|
Sorrow fences with fear and questions
|
118397
|
perhaps I am only being transported not for replacement but for repair
|
118200
|
Perhaps she’s also a do-gooder. One of those socially conscious, change-the-world type girls complete with a never ending supply of life’s own contagious enthusiasm.
|
11821615
|
|
118210
|
at the front of the bus/ sways a white-veiled woman:/ gnarled hands upon/ a bag of palms,
|
1182118
|
how much is downed/
to counteract the down/
with deeper down.
|
118244
|
Our Sun bites down on the eager yet pouting lips of the softly puffy looking moon, but a jealous & runny cloud interferes with this story line just long enough for a little bit of fun: a young dancing tree washes her gold and…
|
118221
|
I remembered because the man took us to see the horses. I didn't see something that set off a series of memories. I only saw the stables and the moon sitting pensively below the firmament. I looked at these and there was spaciousness between the moon and the stables and…
|
118200
|
Insterstice: Novelas Four Sonnets Since …
|
118221
|
—Hey, lover man, where’s my breakfast? said Monique, tousling Ben’s hair.
|
118200
|
Wait a minute, said Ben. What do we really know?
|
1182108
|
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...
|
118133
|
His friend Boner, who was more accurately a friend of Milo, who was a friend of his cousin in Dubai and who had, up until this post, seemed to share thoughts in common with him, posted, “Holy Shit, Dude! What’re You On?”
|
118155
|
|
118101
|
Ben gagged after shot-gunning the scotch. He hiccupped and it came back up through his nose. He grabbed a napkin and caught most of a shot and a half of Whyte & MacKay as it poured out his nose.
|
118110
|
The English phrase "Nice to see you" translates into "My gall bladder is really warm today" in Berik, a language of New Guinea.
What Language Is, John McWhorter
|
1181128
|
the tall, thin ectomorph sat
on the verdant, green grass
as the unclothed naked woman
on the Sunday-picnic blanket
poured white cow’s milk
into a vodka shot glass
|
118140
|
You read my poems, Not because you like them, But just to find yourself, Mentioned in them.
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