2467 12 7
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He's kneeling on the floor of his West Village apartment, by the door, asking me to leave. He first said he saw someone once a week. But what he means is that they sleep together every night, as they live together, and spend their Sundays together.
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1954167
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The night my husband became a transvestite, crows started dying. They fell from the sky like black umbrellas, hitting the ground with a thud. A rainstorm of birds. I figured it was a virulent strain of bird flu that drifted into the clouds and killed them
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106121
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I hope you enjoyed the celebration last night. Good things always come to you. I thought your family would never go home. I didn't get to sleep this morning until 2:59, although I had set my alarm to 6:10. I didn't want you to miss your plane. At daybreak,…
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166673
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We walk in silence. We water our plants. We don’t eat as well as we should. We try to love. We try to forget.
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121421
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Mutiny is the last I remember.
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58020
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He tells me scandalous anecdotes about the neighbors, cheats and priests he knew 88 years before, while the sun races the clouds towards the horizon.
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1071915
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Six of them pecked and scratched/
something at their center/
in the middle of Virginia’s lawn—
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5022
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ANOTHER STUPID POEM Under a park bench two crows hunch. Beside the bench stands a pounder of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Beside the can glisten two splats — chunky, coagulating in the sunrise. The…
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8674
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959157
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Cacophony of an engine-braking eighteen-wheeler/
scatters the crows to fences, trees and wires/
in a startling chant of caw, caw, caw.
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