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Madame B would come once a week and tell me things that I needed to know in exchange for some free items. She would come and grasp my hand while telling me the same thing week after week. Madame B always told me to relax and things would eventually come.
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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…
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My memory is like tracks in the snow. My memory is cookie dough. My memory is dirty tube socks.
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Once there was a man who wrote in code. He was comfortable among substitutions
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He returned to America on the Fourth of July. Twisting in his cramped window seat miles above the Atlantic, he buckled up before the descent. “You can handle this,” he muttered. Hungover, still reeling from the dreamy head-turning experience of…
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Although badly educated, and although the Michoacána fought to deny it, she held the complex notion that borders are not abrupt lines, simple artifacts of geography and cartography.
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Waking in the middle of the night, tangled in the hotel sheets, I wanted to hear the story again: their pilot friend, the war, his specialty. "It's just a screw, son," Dad said, "nothing exotic."
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He stands straighter and walks toward the phone in the back, near the bathrooms. His wet sock slaps loudly against the tile floor. The buzz of conversation dims to whispers, barely audible above the roar of the espresso machine.
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We continue,/Held beyond all surface
Liking it still/And each other/Often surprised:/Like finding garden flowers/No one planted/In summer bloom
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That was when we discovered we could make one shadow jump right through another and come out whole on the other side. Our shadows were indestructible. It was one of those moments of discovery maybe only gallons of pink Chablis could bring on. Or dope.
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Don’t worry about what went aloud. I said nothing.
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If she was still breathing, Tom promised himself he would let her live, but right then his shoulder ached and his right hand was throbbing.
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And the voodoo pins pinged as, folding and imploding, she was reduced to a petro-chemical puddle.
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You read your fortune cookie:
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The young boy sat on the swing, hearing sirens in the distance. The tops of his shoes were dirty. His fingers as well, where he drew stick figures of people in the dirt. His…
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The author's note explains...
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You can say words like "good",just not to me, I'm not in the mood. Ever sincethe fire extinguisher went kaput. Ever since yellowbecame red and orange became blue. Ever since thenews announcement that there is nothing more than carbon.Nectarous your…
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I study the architecture of hunger. I listen to intuitions. I have a map of heaven and a map of hell and they are the same map.
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His land lady was somehow thrilled that the Herr Doktor Professor had a visitor from the US and invited us for tea. She caught us coming in and without thinking anything, and at her persistence, I had absently accepted. My friend did not seem to want to b
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Her preferred post-coital activity is to pant, to suck in air with urgent greed.
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Each mobile unit carried an Alsetex grenade launcher for dispersing tear gas. Any group of five or more people was deemed suspicious and immediately dispersed by roving patrols.
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I, Seer of the Stars, Cartographer of the Cosmos, / measure my mass, and to whom do I owe this woe...
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It was Saturday morning."The coffee maker is not ready yet," said one of the old men. Like the present company, his form was swollen with mismatched layers of cold weather wear.It was a white room with a dozen men, three couches, and a large screen television flickering…
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Tomorrow, they'd bury their daughter . . . and still, so many questions. Why would a beautiful fourteen-year-old choose for herself such a horrible, painful death? In life, she appeared the antithesis of suicidal ideation: excellent grades, well-liked in school and…
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It was also witnessing the emergence into explicitness and clarity of everyone's expendability.
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He’s got horns and a tail
I found him on sale
He’s got snake in his DNA
Evil in his eye
And plenty of chicken pot, chicken pot
Chicken pot pie
But he sure can play piano
With those giant lobster hands
In his ratty raccoon coat
And his
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But I still don't have my underwear in the right place.
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I. Europa How else to begin but with Gustave Holst's Mars--the gods waging war in romantic twilight as drumbeats and cannons blast swathes in the gloaming and glory awaits in the halls of black smoke. A visual perhaps:…
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