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She's at an artist colony in the state of Virginia. She's in her studio. She should be writing. That's what everybody thinks she's doing out here. Why else would she be in her studio alone at 3:00 a.m.? But there's an interloper. A new painter? Sculptor? Maybe he…
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for the moment/
you think you know what you’re/
doing and do it.
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Growing up in Mississippi meant growing up in a “dry” State which it was until 1966. Dry State meant selling alcoholic beverages, except for beer, is illegal. Period. By period I mean there was no distinction between selling whiskey and stuff to adults and…
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None of this is real, he says, and the path slopes down to a house that is possibly haunted. One always looks in such windows, one cannot not look at the predictable detritus of another's failure, a queer satisfaction, a fairy's dust. But no, not real, none of it. And…
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I was sleeping the night of a hurricane party. I awoke to lightning flashes. They lit the undersides of descending clouds, and lit the shadows of scattering dancers. The hurricane must have turned inland.
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It renders the inner ears inoperative-/
Music that once reverberated inside
/
the brain-hut concert hall squeaks
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It's not loneliness I'm afraid of. It's how I would be happy to be alone too much.
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The train station offers a pleasant atmosphere, though it exists as an in between place. People only come here to go somewhere else.
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Then for a few seconds, maybe even a minute or two, we wallow in a sensual shower of raw emotion. Our defenses are nonexistent and we are overwhelmed with care and gratitude. Suddenly, we love our enemies and are willing to forgive our trespassers.
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Doorface has a door for a face. Thus his name. He was born with it. The door in his face, not his name. No one is born with a name. The naming comes later.Doorface finds his unusual physiognomy mildly inconvenient. People keep trying to enter his head. No one likes it when…
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What will become/
of the resource-sucking poor
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I’m aware I will never be a woman the night you leave me for another city
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and skirts, lovely batiks, swirl around your ankles
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Sometimes you've just got to dance to Be heard. You have got to sing out loud To be understood. Other times No matter what you splash 'n' paint on 'em The beauty goes on shamelessly Not arousing any type of newfound Curiosity. We're…
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I drink with my thinking problem intact.
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This is the parallel room that I keep my heart in. Got a solo fireplace. I don't want to invite anything else into the story. It doesn't matter if no one knocks on the door ever again. I'm too shy to hope for much more than a couple of Interesting…
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Mars' circled state is slain, no bird of Jove That roosts protected in its green youth's flush; Its storms no more bring moistness from above, From blue beads cradled in one thunder's flash. The god of War was husband once to Love: Her arms were …
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Treasure that first love. And that first heartbreak. Don’t let it be the last thing.
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They coo and gurgle in the warmth of twig and down. They are so delicate, hard to look at without thinking of death. I tell them I want for them chief among all things strength, speed, resilience.
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Will it take the rise/
of cyber guerillas to finish it/
in the way it should be finished
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Pity would have been appropriate. Yet, townsfolk whispered behind his back. Shouldn't he do something about it. So lazy. A gluttonous swine. Hadn't his mother kept him too long at tit, breastfeeding ‘til four? Look. Look at him now. A fat man. Our enormou
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A friend's remark about androgyny, "it's overrated," she said.
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If I had slept a little longer, I/
would not have seen this rarity at all.
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I threw my hand / at the gearshift/
the car glided off.
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toe and hand-/
holds against/
the shear cliff
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It was Judge Fogarty who said “Thirty days in the market—take him away. Give him a good broom to sweep with—take him away.”
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We suffer//
the one agony only- of having no longer/
any physical effect nor way to speak/
of what we watch to those we watch.
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"The truth isn't always beauty, but the hunger for it is.'--Nadine Gordimer Other things do matter just as much of course. Of course they do. Hey I'm still kind of alive inside this poem here. At least I'd like to think so, so yes another…
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The first night I met her we slow danced to George Strait songs for most of the evening and when we took a break, our talking went warm and well as we sat eating hot dogs and sipping beers until she dropped a couple of bombs, first, telling me she was married and then, that…
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He switched off the light. His wife was breathing softly. At her bedside he told her of her friends the roses, of the pretty carnation brooch he had pinned on her silk scarf, of her coquettish hat which fitted her so well. Small, simple and bright memories the heavy night…
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