Mischief / has marked the bone marauders for doom.

They’ve got the tourists On the top deck of the bus Wrapped up in large yellow Plastic garbage bags Riding through the City in the rain The yellow bags flapping in the wind Yelling in the numerous languages At the top of the world The to

Chin beards, flannel shirts, Levis no boots anymore, just loose sandals their chicks with double triple multiple chins falling asleep on their own palms

With porc’lain hand she writes thy thankless verse/ Like Proserpina, strapped to eb’ny throne,/ Eternally paying the six-month purse/ For hunger once soothed with but seeds alone.

“Okay, here is a wild idea. Let's each choose outfits from the second hand store for the other to buy and wear to a bar for a drink..." Famous second to last words?

I would like to invite the public to an open-air, environmental art piece called Hot Weather. The exhibition will take place this summer. It will not begin until the temperature reaches 90 degrees. This demonstration is available free of charge

Hot sweaty bodies slam into each other to get aboard the overflowing subway car. I struggle to wedge myself though the sliding doors, bracing for more bodies to press against mine. The passengers in front of me suddenly stop and fan out.

There was a bottleneck ahead. We slowed down single-file, me behind, to wait our turn to pass the doorway of a vacant storefront church. In it, a lone black man sat atop an empty plastic milk crate. Nobody looked at him; they were all slowing down and cro

Gee but it’s great after being out late, Walking my lobster back home. There’s little risk that she’ll turn into bisque, Walking my lobster back home.

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Until the stars form last nightI zoom out with an empty heart.Whose forgiveness forgesseas of overabundance, parksUnder the river's bed as magazine?Jet heavy, my tenses shift in an operation between two frightened doctors. I'm hiding onside: the lines & in the branches…

In the poetry section, no one talks except to say, "excuse me," or, "wow," or, "amazing," with the second 'a' stretched out like a blacktop highway. But mostly they say, "excuse me." and that's only because someone dressed in a corduroy jacket is …

The cabinets in D’s kitchen are a pantry of unusual sounds. It is where they are stored.

By the time the third car disappeared, Bud had noticed sudden lulls in the breeze, rain microbursts from otherwise blue skies, cold humid calms that trailed him around the junk.

Nobody buying...