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" No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing."--T.S. EliotI think, okay now I know, the poem's starting to wear off. But I'm alive, at least…
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It was that awkward time when one didn’t know if the night’s lover wanted to see you again.
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At school, Joe knew the answers to the questions. He used to jump up onto his desk and wave his arm before Mrs. Gestapo told him he would have to stop or he would go to the principal’s office, where the other kids said that the principal made you pull d
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Jack Krackenthorpe, Director-General of MI-5, sat alone drinking tea in Lee Ho Fook, a third-rate Chinese restaurant in Soho a mile from his Curzon Street office.
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The Fat Man took a sip of whiskey, then replaced his glass on the table next to his fedora. …
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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 he hit the landing at the…
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We call this game the end of the world...
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A meaningful conversation Subdued the huge Toys “R” Us question mark Standing sun-bleached and sprinkler-dirtied In our flowerbed On the patio Explode your fanny pack, A clinking most dangerous The Mysterious: Its …
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Did you really think you were going to cure cancer with that poem?
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I come up and out of the hole onto a village street in the middle of a parade celebrating the arachnid god.
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The woman was dancing, holding her bottle in the air as she slowly turned around, blocking the way to the exit. “I asked Miss Pansy Blossom if she would wing a reel,” she sang.
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The river was frigid. Branches, empty cans, and used condoms float past me.I lost my jacket when I became snagged on a tree branch. My shoes are gone. My skin is blue-grey, as are my lips and fingernails. I've been face-down in this river for two…
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His thoughts drifted to when he was a kid, to the monthly trip to the barber.
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I am tripping on poetry.
Purple ink drips from my eyes like ergot of rye.
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This time is different. The dream doesn’t continue with endless walking.
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"It all began with a painting," I said. "Mostly blue. Acrylic. Naturalistic in a modern sense. She was stylized but recognizable, and her breasts were exposed. Everyone could see her disordered skirt. The painter was a fan of Herrick.
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I suspect I’ll make the right decision.
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Often I want to kiss their lips
Drink in every word they have written
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when I said good morning I meant
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Sorrow fences with fear and questions
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I COULD always sleep. Go "home" now and sleep. My body and my fetus—who complain of this torture—would appreciate sleep. I have something to do that is not sleep. I have something to do that is not sleep. I have to try to wake.
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of anything if that's the way you feel your love must go down, off its last nut before the big victimizing crash of the end of days and flowers. But watch out for thosethorn bushes that grow from forgotten holes in the ground.…
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There it was
One abandoned high heel shoe on the sidewalk
Could have been
Some kind of robbery
Though
Maybe it was just
The beginning of the
Walk of shame
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They pull up to the curbside and he jumps out
to shake the hands in that familiar men’s
grasp/shake they do when saluting each other.
If that isn’t his daughter it should be, the one
sitting in his car, with her door wide open.
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For as long as John could remember, he loved to blow up things. It started back in grade school with firecrackers and cherry bombs—he would put them in toys, tin cans, shit like that to see what would happen. Then he advanced to stronger stuff, M-80s. Skip and…
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The beer on the shore is
Lapping at the foam of memory
And I can’t sit still
Until I take my pill
Karma Wash, Hog Wash and Swill
I went to the top of the heap
At the bottom of the Hill
I saw a bum’s sign that read:
“Will eat dog food for
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Defenestration - the act of throwing someone out of a window.
I went to Prague recently to visit my family’s castle, which is called Krivoklat. I’m not even going to attempt to explain to you how to pronounce that. It’s outside Prague, about an hour t
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The Gringovitch family was gathered in the lobby of the hotel. The boys sat on the floor using their packs as back supports. Francesca Gringovitch sat on a chair with the remaining luggage in front of her.
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The Bearcat 101 was a police scanner popular with a certain type during in the 1970s. Daddy was that exact type. I found the Bearcat in his apartment after he passed. His illness was a common one, the process gradual, implacable. No red and blue…
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It was May of my senior year in college. Everybody was coasting, knowing what they were going to be doing the next year, or that they’d be doing nothing. Except for one guy, Tom.
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