The house stood quietly in its surrounds. Unnerved by the beauty that enveloped it. Green forest trees loomed round the house protecting it from the outside world and in front of it lay a sweeping lake that disappeared into the trees on…

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.

It was a cruel question, coming on breath that stank of the grave.

The abstracted man lacks an inside. He is a body. A shell. An exterior that encompasses nothing.The abstracted man yearns to fill himself with adjectives. He lumbers through streets. No adjectives fit. He finds adjectives where we discard them. He carries them in his…

My dog Alfie and I would get in my van and go out at midnight for a doughnut. Or an éclair. A French cruller, to be exact. Sometimes we would get Blondie's Pizza on Telegraph Avenue near the Berkeley campus, if it got to be too lonely and restless at nigh

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 …

　 It wasn't meant for our brains to take in so much information, I hear someone say on NPR The information age, seems to be suited for me, I can't get enough of it, it floods my mind and nerves, Reading wikipedia and blogs for hours and You tube 　 And im…

Mothers and sons and war, an old story...

I'm writing you this letter played on a cherry flute. I'm sending it along through the poem's cloud of incense. The only delivery system I still hitch up for long distance pitching. I'm writing you a letter you'll probably never read. Never…

We’d sometimes find my mother asleep in her chair outside her trailer at the nudist camp when we drove up. She loved her garden there, even with the rabbits eating her young tomato plants. She used to coax the bluebirds down to the railing of her trailer

the Coke made his butt leak blood

When Prince Rainier III asked an expert whether there was a literature of Monaco, her research produced only a suggestive ode to a fig and a poem about a fart.

It’s good to get fucked in the rain. It’s good to get fucked in the back seat of a power boat on a river in the hot summer air with the mosquitos sucking the life out of you. It’s good to get fucked with your bare back rubbing up against the rough bar

but isn't that the case in most long-term, committed relationships?

She burns her wrists with menthols; she says it's too much effort to cut them. Besides, it's more fun.