1650 7 6
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"You know what a hobo is, my young friend? Or a tramp? Or a bum? Well, I'll tell ya, 'cuz you'll meet all of 'em in yer life and it's a good thing to know since they are each one of 'em different and the difference is this. Bums sit around and loaf. T
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203211
|
The lard-arsed ol’bastard struggling
soot-faced and yelling. . . .
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143821
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This stage of Junior’s young life was static, moving very little off-center since his graduation from high school five years ago. Treading water both professionally and emotionally never worried him. Not until after what transpired that night when Pr
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140542
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About halfway through reading some book that was supposed to be some really deep shit, I decided to write my own book instead.
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3631511
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Some silliness to start the new year with a smile. Warning: this piece contains nothing of any literary value. I mean, seriously, not even by accident. Happy 2012 to you all.
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246143
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He nuzzled the breasts with his face for a moment, his leathery skin and tangles of hair tickling her in the process.
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183256
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We get prepped for the big finale, and we don't want the guy who turns up with the scythe to be Jo-Jo the dog-faced boy.
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118630
|
after several beers this woman told me once/(when I was maybe 15)
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155332
|
Put blisters on your fingers and
Put plasters on your head but
Put peppers on your privates and
You’ll wish that you were dead!
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8121
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We waited in a collective gasp—like the vacuous atmosphere which exists after a bomb explodes, when everything is terrible silent—save for her, my beautiful Mary, who defiant and strong, viciously punctuated her act of rebellion: “Vegetarian, Asshole!”
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123700
|
I found him dead underneath a sycamore tree. I knew it was a sycamore tree because of all the acorns surrounding the body.
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127474
|
I don’t know what to do with all this money flowing from my books.
It’s burning a hole in my literary pocket.
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8452
|
I refuse to give in. I am a woman of purpose, hard-wired to whine.
|
2200
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they had babies - lots and lots of babies. And they drove around in giant, steel tanks that they called cars.
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123521
|
The poet paused
Pen poised in hand
A wrinkle on his brow
He’d but to rhyme the final verse
The only problem
How?
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