a ruminating marsupial? if so,/ I guess I’d be a kangaroo, the cud soured/ and pasted to the tongue . . .

The pavement was so hot, it burned the souls of my feet. I really thought they would blister, but they rarely did. I would try to walk on the grass, between driveways. Carrying that large bulky box. I would hear the the slap, slap, slap, of some of the other…

“She's the year of the horse,” Metri said as he peeled his dirty head from the bed, his hair was as matted as a racoon tale. It was as wild as a wild animal and smelled like body odor with a hint of blood. He slid his scabbed hands up to his chest as if to…

He was the Elton John Distinguished Professor of Lyrics, the last man over the drawbridge before they abolished tenure; he didn’t have to do any original thinking for the rest of his life.

To whoever reads this next--Henry James makes my head hurt.

We came wind-milling together ,up and over the blue and yellow stone bluffs, like a couple of empty yet racing nowhere fast plastic grocery bags, catching onto everything and anything in our way, and desperately trying to get free again,…

The blond hair lifts slightly on the skin of my arms. In my mind I am nodding, listening to you in your bedroom as you read to me from your poems. The veins along my arms standing up interestingly. I probably have small breasts, yes. I look up, searchin

“Yes. You should probably bring her in.” This was what the receptionist from the Metropolitan Veterinary Hospital told me. My dog, Goldie, had a bloody nose and was breathing heavily.

I didn’t know how to find the gold-capped ocean. How was I supposed to know where it was? I only knew you did not want or expect me to follow you there, where the orifice to everything withers, including my heart. Openings from the rivers drying in the

I was thinking that the feminists pounding the city pavement had increased rent with every footstep, not that I was not one, but we had not earned our money at it or put our money together.

If you were a painter, and I a poet, we could have conversations about Picasso and Bukowski, and how neither one took a sober breath.

From 'Excelsior' (fifth section) - a poem in 9 parts. So this is what begins at thirty? Thirty-five, And waiting. Those make love with water mildly, they That sink and skim the tide's meridian fingers: Brown swans that bob the blue orb's plumbing sheer. So this has…

At home I cranked the oven and stuffed both pizzas in there and when they were ready I ate every crumb of both pies.

Dissonance is indispensable Observes Marcel Proust in a rowboat I hold in my hand a fire

I’m leaning into my freedom and will have you take your portable prison with you and you can set those four walls across town.