951 2 0
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There was a bucket of shit . . .
|
950 0 0
|
In the switched-off
time
of day's blackest
rest-
|
950 1 2
|
Tom wasn’t crying.
A few snowflakes, the first of the season, flittered down and landed on Elizabeth’s new headstone, christening it. Tom didn’t have his topcoat, and he never buttoned his suit. He tried not to shiver. Lynn lifted her face from Tom’s c
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950 5 2
|
We head home, skirting along the coast,
humble before catapulting waves;
the lighthouse near invisible
if not for a single band of red.
|
950 0 0
|
A tanka poem inspired by the CEO's apology and a 10% discount for the 40 million debit card numbers stolen at Target store since Black Friday.
|
950 0 0
|
I glance back over my shoulder as you fumble with the keys. Repeatedly. You swear a little under your breath. You finally locate the proper one and the large door swings open. I hold it as you run over to the alarm keypad. You punch in the code written on a…
|
950 0 0
|
My tongue lashes out like a whip.
|
950 8 8
|
Your self-effacement hid/
so much of you//
until you died and the full/
inked legacy shown in light
|
950 2 0
|
When you awaken on the other side, you will see, I was like the swan gliding before death, and the animating power of her is willing and unavoidable. And you are itching, feeling an inextinguishable sexual desire, its nightmare ink burnt in your head, n
|
950 1 1
|
"... A set of vertebrae disintegrate and a woman falls face first into her dinner plate."
|
950 1 0
|
Mr. Townsend is a normal guy. He's been on auto pilot a while. When he finally snaps out of it, he's surprised at what he finds.
|
950 2 2
|
“I am the Successor of Peter!” he said, supporting himself on the shepherd’s staff topped with a crucifix: “And you are trespassing on Holy Ground.” Baal said: “No ground is Holy for me.
|
950 1 1
|
But please, don't let me fall into any more smaller pieces than I already have, before I get to kiss someone again and really mean It. I'm pretty sure I've always believed in something more positive than just hate. I've …
|
950 3 2
|
Let's put a cork in this drain.
|
950 7 6
|
The leaves/
that clung through February/
fall, dung brown,
|
950 14 6
|
I am the ritual/
banalities of days numbered,/
numberless, and numb.
|
950 12 7
|
Extrapolate, interpolate/
to add imaginary flesh//
to fragmentary bones.
|
950 2 1
|
I had a dream, I remember, where I am in this painting, Luncheon on the Grass. My dress was thrown off and the picnic basket, filled with bread and fruit, is spilled out upon it, and I am sitting nude on my underclothing, with two gentlemen fully dresse
|
950 10 7
|
clouds clot the horizon all day
|
950 1 1
|
As we stood there, my hair slung over his shoulder like uncooked pizza dough, I updated my wish.
|
949 6 3
|
Memory is unreliable, of course-/
re-coloring savored scenes-/
paler here, more saturated there-
|
949 2 1
|
|
949 2 1
|
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
|
949 0 0
|
I have hate and it is black not midnight, crisp fresh clear. Unadulterated. It is dirty, poor, gritty solid rough like unripe stone fruit. A peach, mealy and dry. The killing, effete, endures. Silent, my repugnance, sick, eats…
|
949 2 2
|
Very upsetting morning. I've fallen madly in love with the cat upstairs named Roza. She's one of the sweetest cats I've ever met. Her owner is a retired Romanian woman about my own age named Ingrid. Roza has one bad eye and one good eye. The bad eye looks like a…
|
949 11 8
|
and skirts, lovely batiks, swirl around your ankles
|
949 9 6
|
“Yes, Mother, of course I’m still single. No, I haven’t joined the Army. No, I’m not moving back home.”
|
949 0 0
|
1A voice scratches her ear: Come here, petal.Later: …
|
949 1 1
|
You think about bears and it gives you a headache? Don’t give them that power.
You see bears and it gives you a headache? Don’t run. Don’t walk but don’t run.
|
949 4 4
|
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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