#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the
A girl is running. Don’t tell me “She’s running for her bus.” All that aside!
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
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…
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
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!
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
With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”
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…
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...
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have