64 4 0
|
A good thought has a way of becoming anonymous, echoing strangely through others, being polished like a riverbed stone or a ballad. My blood's a cocktail of Scots-Irish, Dutch, Italian, German, and Muscogee. My cultures have been bled from me until I am…
|
1287117
|
War came home tonight. We weep and hug, while he stares over our shoulders, like the statue we'll make of him. We pour a drink for his shaky hands, wheel him past his friends the dead, and lie to each other about other, far off places as if we knew.
|
205320
|
Blood smeared in the hugging choke of her courtier. Our only recourse is to confront life with the benefits of a choke. “Please, don't make me force you.” Should misery be a reassurance when love is destroyed? There are reasons: “My wife doesn't live with
|
103600
|
We dig up conscience-tunnels, pluck the play-flower of present choice for fun, run aground, past this dimly lit, though not to be underestimated, stage, and open door upon empty door, to nothing, for the lights are a pulse flickering in the perceptual per
|
