#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women #FreeVerse
What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…
The jacaranda, for instance, is be… but not serious. That much I can guess. And that the view
Shooting pleasures Ok’d by My being seen For Or as
spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!
If sadness is akin to patience, we’re back! Pattern recognition was our first response
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
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
Card in pew pocket announces, “I am here.” I made only one statement because of a bad winter.
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
A girl is running. Don’t tell me “She’s running for her bus.” All that aside!
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have
The very flatness of portraits makes for nostalgia in the connoisseur. Here’s the latest
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way
A merchant is probing for us with his chintz curtain effect. *
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”
