1608 9 6
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Can I still be in your pictures?
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What did they even invent
clothing for? I asked.
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“Perhaps instead of a book I could write lists of words, in alphabetical order, an avalanche of isolated words which expresses the truth I still do not know” — Italo Calvino albumen before child grit secretlyshame august blood …
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I never killed a cop before.
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We go in gently at first, skimming over the first few swells and dropping speed, but then we pitch hard, tail over. The windshield holds. I think of Lily. I think of the baby. And I see my life.
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Pine nerves spike and row.
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Tired, so tired of it all, but oh we'll always go on, won't we, still carrying on about the love the love the love we shared, only again and again. Ooh the oozing life blood is slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly now going to shit I say, practically…
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so here we all are/
deep in debt
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She’s changed leaves to emeralds. Worn a shawl of inked birds’ wings.
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I wrote her a poem.She said, “I hate poetry.” I said, “OK, just read the words then."
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The dictator, what'sisface, was crazy nuts.
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Hi fellow writersThis is a proposed start of novel.Protagonist is Flor "the urchin"her grandfather, whom she hated when he was alive (and vice versa) is seeing her life from the void, he has died.Please offer any feedback or thoughts you may have, all are appreciated.Here…
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The thunder rolled like an old Bob Dylan tour...
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I have always admired flat-chested women.
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She heads toward the end of the island and doesn't look back.
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Her pheromones were working overtime.
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It’s not that cold but the cold that is/
penetrates layered cloth and soft skin/
to chill the blood in its capillaries
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She died in a car crash yesterday. She was driving down Hawthorne, past the strip mall with the Benihana’s, when her ’05 Corolla unaccountably careened over the center meridian and into oncoming traffic.
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Upstairs, in a room where some years later, the occupant would be murdered by his lover, I sat in my skivvies in an armchair and wondered if I should call my wife.
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"Fax the Beaver" was its last, secret title. The beaver is a dirty trick, and it belongs on the index card.
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(no one need fear timidity in our tastes― /
we like trying new things, no matter our hastes!)
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There were guitar players, and as happens with talent sometimes, the guitar players were too talented. There could not be places for all of them in a single rock band.
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I’m maybe only four. Not smoking cigarettes found in street gutters yet. That will come the next year, when I’m five. Maybe when I’m six, and Andy’s five, my pal from across the street. That’s my tricycle parked behind this pack of kids that look to be ne
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Of all the authors in the library, it was a wife from Maryland who called out from her marriage dormer I was not to read her.
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Be not a Hercules furens abroad, and a Poltroon within thyself
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We hold fast to the bed’s corners, afraid our bodies, these new old bodies, have forgotten how to love in its center.
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4. Hers blocking driveway, his diagonal in grass
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