#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!
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
The jacaranda, for instance, is be… but not serious. That much I can guess. And that the view
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
A merchant is probing for us with his chintz curtain effect. *
The very flatness of portraits makes for nostalgia in the connoisseur. Here’s the latest
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
“must represent the governess for, of course, the creature itsel… could not inspire such terror.” staring at me fixedly, no trace of recognition.
A girl is running. Don’t tell me “She’s running for her bus.” All that aside!
So these are the hills of home. H… nearly subliminal. To see them is… double, hear bad puns delivered wi… An untoward familiarity. Rising from my sleep, the road is…
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”
The idea that they were reenacting something which had been staged in the first place bothered her. If she wanted to go on, she’d need to ignore this limp chronology. She assumed he was...
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.