54 5 4
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I'm walking Alfie by the house of the Russian neighbor. His name is Oleg or some shit. He's out in the yard doing something. He's always doing some shit. Today it looks like he's building a house of grapes. He's got the four walls, big green grapes glistening in the…
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68142
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my love for you/ is like the falling snow
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63115
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the burning thrusts/
of yellow in defiance of the frost
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5463
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"I would like my pictures to look as if a human being had passed between them, like a snail, leaving a trail of the human presence, memory trace of past events, as the snail leaves its slime." Francis bacon “Feminine …
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63115
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Lou Reed was sitting in CBGB,
I was sitting on Greenwich Ave. and West 10th street.
I didn't know him then and I didn't know him later either,
but we were both there.
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7943
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I suspect I’ll make the right decision.
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6032
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Warning:
The cure for laughter
is only temporary
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7443
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You move, tracing the back of the ear to the corner of the mouth with the forefinger to another's face. Trace the line back to capture the construct. Pull an unseen quarter from behind the ear of a child. Go back the way you came following the footprints you left there.This…
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6942
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6842
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If it all just doesn't matter, it still matters to me. I get the tired, hungry sediment. But I still care, that's all I'm saying, if you are a hurt being who for some reason needs me to care. Here, let's give them what they really want: the…
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7733
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“C'mon Billy, don't be s-s-s-s-scared.' said the voice coming from under the bed. Billy looked over the side and saw a pale white, bony right hand with it's forefinger beckoning him protruding out from below. The nails were yellowed and cracked. And long. Very, very…
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a ruminating marsupial? if so,/
I guess I’d be a kangaroo, the cud soured/
and pasted to the tongue . . .
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6811
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The waves assisted in pushing him forward, until he reached the dry sand. He saw a small resort town ahead. The lights were out in the businesses and homes.
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6764
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From Thirteen Love Poems and Twelve Songs of Despair, poems from a feminist in love with a man in a forbiddingly patriarchal world. Also part of my 2018 poetry collection Xanthippe and Her Friends
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7665
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I can walk among words, Scatter them like birds, to compose two thirds of a poem, when they settle on nearby wires, in an order inspiring wonder. What do they think, when I scatter them asunder. Bring them disarray, Shape them to a…
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7886
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39054
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Is every librarian a poet at heart? I don't know, but a group of librarians recently put their heads together and came up with these library-themed Valentine's Day poems: Roses are red Your book's overdue You've had it for months Which is…
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9033
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A strange man tapped my door and held up the shoes for me to see. “It is the Dork Shoe,” he said. I looked past him at his dusty station wagon filled with boxes. “I have your size right here.” I observed the halo of his gray hair as he…
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9533
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I feel like I should tell you
things about strength.
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10086
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Is it my imagination, or is her chair afraid of her?
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122136
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I am the ritual/
banalities of days numbered,/
numberless, and numb.
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107127
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Loosely based on a true story.
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22674
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I’m living at the Edge of Graffiti
And yet I still survive
Because I walked across the line
Separating me from the rest of mankind
You can see me out here
I’m in so much pain
All that’s written on my face
I think it’s pretty plain
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11265
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You don’t want to tango with me, she said.
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135128
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she lifted and threw her legs out the open
side front window of the speeding auto
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11144
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This is your mystery, your story Full of beauty and all-encompassing loveA brushstroke washes the canvas cleanYou start over with a new directionDreaming of me as you paint your wordsWriting just like Keats, Shelley and BrontëAbout sorrow, rain and the wheels of…
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13354
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We sat up in bed. It's two o'clock in the morning. Blinding circular flashlight beams probe through the half pulled shades. Magnified black silhouettes of men's torsos lumber back and forth in the yard. We are in a fishbowl and being invaded.
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I haven’t read many of them, these poets
that they speak of – Whitman and his Leaves
Of Grass, Mary Oliver and her wild life
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