#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women
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!
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way
If sadness is akin to patience, we’re back! Pattern recognition was our first response
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”
The very flatness of portraits makes for nostalgia in the connoisseur. Here’s the latest
With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
Complex systems can arise from simple rules. It’s not that we want to survive, it’s that we’ve been drugged
A merchant is probing for us with his chintz curtain effect. *
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
A girl is running. Don’t tell me “She’s running for her bus.” All that aside!
The doll told me to exist. It said, “Hypnotize yourself.” It said time would be transfixed.