#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have
With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
It’s as if we’ve just been turned… in order to learn that the beetle we’ve caught and are now devouring is our elder brother
spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!
Card in pew pocket announces, “I am here.” I made only one statement because of a bad winter.
If sadness is akin to patience, we’re back! Pattern recognition was our first response
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”
A merchant is probing for us with his chintz curtain effect. *
The jacaranda, for instance, is be… but not serious. That much I can guess. And that the view
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the
What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…
Shooting pleasures Ok’d by My being seen For Or as