#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women #FreeVerse
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
What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…
spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!
Complex systems can arise from simple rules. It’s not that we want to survive, it’s that we’ve been drugged
“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!
If sadness is akin to patience, we’re back! Pattern recognition was our first response
The jacaranda, for instance, is be… but not serious. That much I can guess. And that the view
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the
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?”
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way