1131 7 7
|
They blew in the doorway of the café at the French Hotel like two sparrows chasing each other. Their wings down in the dust, unheeding any danger in their hunger for each other. I knew the man who was about to become her husband, so maybe this was her las
|
102777
|
And a delicacy
in the right regrets.
|
3700
|
“Maggie’s sleeping with this big honcho artist at Irvine, Philip Guston.”
“You’re kidding. Philip Guston, for real?”
Kirk nodded.
“She’s his favorite and they’re like doing it and I confronted her about it and she wouldn’t say yes b
|
114965
|
I got on the Greyhound Bus at 11 a.m. and sat by myself staring out the window. I could see the reflection of my own dark beard in the window, a 27 year-old man with a huge poem bursting my heart, gasping to get out into the bright lit-up world out there,
|
98443
|
A story about convincing people to do things they don't want to do, written entirely in dialogue; originally published by CHEAP POP.
|
2702016
|
There is a small gap between the kitchen sink and the wall. I’ve dropped, over time, all our forks down there. They cannot be retrieved. We eat with our hands now.
|
93533
|
Life's a beach? A bitch? Same thing.
|
88833
|
I know who done it. Them goddamn taters. I walked around the yard and started picking up pieces of the camaro, wondering if, from above, they’d laid the parts out into some kinda cult symbols or something.
|
7381312
|
First, hold a lime in your hand;
wrap your fingers around it and pretend
it’s something else
|
1151109
|
Cinema Verite’ is the best book of poems I have encountered since Matthea Harvey’s Modern Life
|
86100
|
From outside it looked abandoned. We lived at the top of a dead end hill. The grass was high and brown, the bricks in the driveway were crooked, caved in. The winter was mild; rotten crabapples, half-frozen, lined the end of the road. This was my house.
|
120044
|
It’s nice, but, it’s weird not being in love, or maybe in love, sometimes in love.
(Or, not in love. Frankly, we might be not in love.)
Or, both of us might be. Or, only one of us might be.
(Good lord, I hope it’s never me.)
|
800
|
I wish I could remember what I sent to these magazines.
They tell me how much they enjoyed reading my pieces.
They always do, and using the exact same words too.
It’s quite amazing. Though they never accept anything.
Just cannot remember what I se
|
89110
|
|
131599
|
What if I said;
I never liked actually reading?
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