#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women #FreeVerse Poem, Prose
Shooting pleasures Ok’d by My being seen For Or as
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
The doll told me to exist. It said, “Hypnotize yourself.” It said time would be transfixed.
The jacaranda, for instance, is be… but not serious. That much I can guess. And that the view
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...
spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way
What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…
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
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—
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