1267 8 5
|
take out the yellowed recipes/
left by mothers and grandmothers—//
perhaps the great aunt who never married—
|
126760
|
The silence grew louder as it grew longer.
|
126700
|
Ben Clarone watched Dan Arris get into the Brighton Beach Car Service car and leave the departure zone of the Pan Am Worldport terminal at JFK. Ben’s rare all wood contrabass clarinet, which his repairman, Sal Frompini, had spent the last six hours adjust
|
126733
|
It’s too early in the morning to play the glockenspiel. I’ll just sit here and knit this tiger.
|
1267133
|
I'm available most weekends.
|
126730
|
You're trying to attract visitation in a small quarter with pearls in both your lobes. Only half of what you say is true. The red lipstick shines through like a brad on white paper, a voice, soprano. The half I tend to appreciate squanders & squalls. This is the ride…
|
126751
|
"I love you.”“Night.”Back at the screen door she answers “What?” I stand under her nose and say “Box is out of juice.” Inside she sits me on the black and white polka-dotted sofa we make love around here and there.…
|
126720
|
We kidnap mothers of all sorts: old mothers, single mothers, young mothers (rarely), but we never do it for ransom. As a society we are adamantly opposed to the use of violence. Our mission is to remove mothers from environments they are not appreciated in, whether by their…
|
126700
|
you kissed me, once,/ kindergarten, recall--/ behind my ear./ called/ 'bee sting'
|
126655
|
As a boy Edward had stayed in the confessional several times in a row. The priest was drunk and couldn't tell it was the same kid over and over. The tiny door slid open…”Scobbity bobbity…tell me your sins…” Edward confessed what he thought were sins, then said…
|
126622
|
On the days I wasn’t there, my insides felt like paper-mâché.
|
126674
|
I like burning lavender on glowing charcoal and dancing hard, thinking about long futures and deep moments. I want to cry and then scream and I don't feel like cleaning up. If I can keep a rhythm going long enough,I think I can build…
|
126643
|
The old hate the young. Robe exposed monks do not Hate mosquitoes. It is one. It is one hand. It is on. Mountains don't hate sky. The rich hate the poor. The poor hate the rich. The parade of scholars hate the …
|
126621
|
A door in the hallway, with 30E in brass letters glinting dully on its polished surface, lying sideways on the floor like a beacon.
|
126666
|
Look. There's just you and me, that's all that's left. All the rest of them had already given up a long, long time ago. They dropped their precious, colorful dreams like rusted railroad lanterns, like abandoned pumpkins, and littered the Twitching…
|
126576
|
Marcel Proust had never been to a big-box store before. He was dazzled by the sheer size and scope of the store and the seeming impassivity of the shoppers. So many products, so many shelves, such strangely intriguing examples of the human condition. The people seemed…
|
126555
|
Already past the harbinger of yellow crocus
|
126500
|
I sat in the kitchen with the phone in my hand. The phone had just stopped ringing. When it rang, its screen lit up with the face of the caller. It vibrated and played a tune called "Dusk 2 Dawn." Now the kitchen was silent.
|
126596
|
Through feeling her life story,
I understood mine, more,
|
126564
|
And no one died achieving aristeia/
in this battle. We have come/
at least some little distance.
|
126532
|
Chewy is an old dog. His face is mostly white.
|
126521
|
She was outside the house with one of her unlit cigarettes dangling from those chapped lips, she was carrying the can of kerosene and wearing a pair of red Mary Jane shoes, even her footwear smacked of violent drawing mystery.
|
126531
|
|
126500
|
Everything I write is gold, he mused. My words spill onto the page like ambrosia, nectar of the gods, filling an empty vessel with immortal life.
|
126452
|
The moon once rose on its own
Now it takes a series of
Ropes and pulleys to get it up
Because it’s so old
And you can hear these audible groans
Coming from its craters
As it’s forced to listen to forgotten lovers
Obsessing over old lov
|
126485
|
I'm not plagued with high levels. Must be all the raking I do. My pubes look as lush as my hair, so fire isn't even a concern. Maybe heat exhaustion is.This might be a poem,My oceans aren't small.
|
126421
|
Listening to old friends speak the same way, the same things tells me they have been dead a long time. They are in their form of living, their self, there is no new season of growth. I witness each of them continue on the same path because it is familiar
|
126431
|
Interstice 1 Carved apart for Zion, set against a void,The wrecking dell of yet the Second War,Does Operation Hellstorm fill the floorOf still the firestormed ballroom? We forsworeOur filiality in killing you, and EidBells the invasion's consummation: and besideThe…
|
126431
|
He had to
get over
the short bridge
|
126444
|
Yeah, okay, so
pigeons are the bums
of the bird world
So what are a flock
of crows working over
a wheat field while
the artist Vincent
is desperately trying to live
with his bleeding ear
or to sell at least
one painting during
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