1205 4 4
|
The world hasn't ended. Your part in it is still ongoing. The going on world hasn't winked out. Every possibility is still out there. In there, out there, it doesn't matter where you are. The here and now claims you for its only tribe. They only want someone to tell them…
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1205119
|
and we spun you, / spun you!
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120511
|
The white moon is dangling
by a thread tonight.
I close my eyes
and listen to it undress.
Your halo fell around your ankles
and you became see-through,
but there’s a vast gulf between being pretty,
and pretty dangerous.
Still, I’ve s
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120494
|
His will is whole, inviolate,
and wholly full of possibility.
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120400
|
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.
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120462
|
I found a field
where all the
unanswered prayers
were once buried
but someone
someone
someone had
dug them up
again
and was putting
them
to good use
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120476
|
Barbarians and savages wore feathers/
or frightful face paint or skin tones//
one could recognize and aim for/
with weapons one could feel
|
120400
|
Late last night down at Jim's Saloon
Everyone expected that the last balloon
Would go Boom! The one they all saw coming
And Lady Liberty would send the bad guys running
|
120444
|
Through the lonely night
All the roads are breathing
While somewhere on the road
The American soul lies bleeding
The past is all in yellow
The future’s all in blue
While living in the moment
Has lost its rosy hue
|
120411
|
I should have worn shorts.
|
120494
|
Hilda Raz lost a daughter. Her son gained a persona, backed by biological components. I was impressed by his male-pattern baldness. A biological genius. And yet, I was reduced and in the elevator mentioned crying about it.
|
120432
|
Palinode: A poem written to retract something said in a prior poem.
|
120443
|
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 …
|
120400
|
At the week's end, memories may come to you Of weekends same as those just gone before, That fade away from seeing as a tide's grey flue, That vanishes once travelled to a shifting shore: Still, hope you'll know a girl for an hour anew, One who fades…
|
120432
|
He doesn't tell her that he is married, and that his five year old daughter who is living at your house has a mother back in that same city
|
120433
|
It’s too early in the morning to play the glockenspiel. I’ll just sit here and knit this tiger.
|
120400
|
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.
|
120421
|
|
120321
|
There it it again, that noise. That low hum that I know so well now, spinning, gaining momentum in my head, like a cyclist in a velodrome, until its steadiness and roundness becomes sharp, painful, cutting like glass.
|
120330
|
... if he planned to install them in their bedroom she would find them more than a little distracting.
|
120321
|
Zoë was stunning in a designer gown so revealing and form-fitting that only static electricity could keep it on her body.
|
120351
|
"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.…
|
120391
|
I can no longer conjure the sweetness of a plum
|
120321
|
Is death like standing in a room at night and turning off the lights? You would still hear your breathing. You hold your breath. Silence. Darkness. Yet you feel gravity, your feet on the floor. Then the air brushes your skin. Remove the air,…
|
120343
|
I had the blues. I was feeling down the day the circus came to town. There was cash in my pocket and a bag of weed. I went to the circus with a desperate need to renew my faith in the good of mankind. Perhaps under the big top some laughs I’d find.
|
120275
|
|
12021610
|
My first winter in Massachusetts feels medieval: cold, dark, and endless.
|
120211
|
Oh, but we have lost-- such treasured souls, at immeasurable costs. Oh, but we do moan and cry-- such treasured souls, no tangible, useable reasons why. Oh, but we whose hearts do bleed-- such treasured souls, we…
|
120200
|
|
120240
|
The news just now that you are dead
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