1155 2 1
|
As the patter of our passing feet fades.
|
115500
|
This girl who looks about ten years old and her Pomeranian puppy are staring at my left arm and my right hand keeps filling out the form and I know I shouldn't but I say what she's been begging me to for the last half hour: It wasn't Wilbur. It was a woman. A girl,…
|
115500
|
Dave Sharpe silently pulled his desk chair out of its nook that was conveniently placed underneath his desk. He took a deep breath as he slowly took his place in the seat and nudged it into a perfect…
|
115500
|
Silent defenders
of penumbra one
|
115521
|
They called him Hank. We piled in a car and drove up from Irvine to his little bungalow apartment on DeLongpre near Hollywood Blvd. for a collating party for this Mag he started with Neely called “Laugh Literary and Man the Humping Guns.” No shit, that wa
|
115521
|
If the pen travels over a sheet of paper, it is not long before a metaphor appears. A fast, beautiful metaphor like friendship, or deformity. Think of the pen as a penis and the ink as semen. I just sit and laugh. Time impregnates an opportunity and a lon
|
115520
|
Through by the sands and the rocks we were going and the lake liquid had tumbled the stones by the thousands so that while the water was still we could see agates and yellow jaspers and other or even the odd and misspent piece of rounded glass green or white safe…
|
115521
|
She was reading The Thorn Birds. Always on her side, in a pink cotton housecoat. The Buddha rested on his side. And drank milk. We drank plenty of milk, but, being Catholic, didn't know anything about Buddha. I would sit there. Piles of books were around. I…
|
115500
|
For every Ruben Studdard, there are ten Mick Jaggers and, considered merely in terms of avoirdupois, the two sides of that scale would probably balance.
|
115597
|
As ghosts, they became lovers. Rodion would strum the Underwood keys like a balalaika. Lizaveta would sing.
|
115400
|
The sexuality comes over us in waves. We need to hold things, someone. The women, the men, side by side, our features blending together. We notice the small curved lines at the corners of the mouth. We notice everything. And the animal is still inside m
|
11542510
|
|
115422
|
We all have our place
But it’s always there, isn’t it
Streaming throughout our lives
The light of the face
Where most of the soul comes to rest
We see it best when the hard wind blows
Cause in the course of events
The wind will know our
|
115410
|
Shit, I guess I'm gonna hafta
|
115433
|
“Hey! You can’t be
whistling on Greyhound,”
the bus driver said,
looking up
in the rearview mirror.
|
115400
|
Have you ever Felt As if you were Alone In the world?
|
115422
|
A likeness borne in silk, rich contours of canvas giving life to the seascape.
|
115410
|
The funeral grounds look level and calm. We leave the urban world behind for an instant. The other world has claimed someone. But we are in limbo. It is a terrible thing when a connection or breakthrough moment is not achieved or granted by the universe. …
|
115301
|
His long black lashes stir, flutter a wink. His eyes catch yours through the dark reflection of your face, illuminated from beneath by wavering candlelight. Reflection obscures his features; they become yours.
|
1153129
|
Who does that besides Kafka,
Arreola, and Steven Wright?
|
115375
|
The despair that comes and goes is here again
I saw a woman who was holding herself
As she walked past, as if a fire were about to
Lunge out of her parts
She was in such great need of being held
The despair that comes and goes is here again
|
115310
|
my tiny white world, the cube in the closet in the back above the shelving in a secret compartment cut into the wall
|
115321
|
|
115311
|
"We improvised to show our Spanish compadres that we meant them no disrespect, and the running of the cats was born."
|
115353
|
Most of life, it
turns out,
is pathetic.
Very little is funny.
We have to generate our
own laughter.
Canned laughter
may have to do.
Even if we have to carry
the can around our neck
like a Saint Bernard
or strapped to our
hip
|
115244
|
A short sonnet for my sweetheart's birthday.
|
115253
|
It was a summer full of rage and discontent. The air had a new taste to it, reminiscent of the tang of battery acid.
|
115211
|
In 1609 Ben Jonson was hired to write a work in celebration of the opening of a new shopping mall.
|
115231
|
We bring words together and set them up on blind dates. Watch them build a history together, get married and fight together. Make offspring syllables cradled warm in cribs of punctuation. Phonemes squeezed into existence by two parenthesis. Words…
|
115244
|
Well, I walked in on you, then you walked out on me
And that was when it happened – the end of history
And that should have been sufficient
But I think you know it wasn’t
I remember it was you who told me
Dreams are only efficient when illusio
|
