#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women
Shooting pleasures Ok’d by My being seen For Or as
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
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!
A merchant is probing for us with his chintz curtain effect. *
A girl is running. Don’t tell me “She’s running for her bus.” All that aside!
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the
With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—
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...
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”
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…
The very flatness of portraits makes for nostalgia in the connoisseur. Here’s the latest
Card in pew pocket announces, “I am here.” I made only one statement because of a bad winter.
What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…
If sadness is akin to patience, we’re back! Pattern recognition was our first response