#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women #FreeVerse Poem, Prose
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way
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…
A career in vestige management. A dream job back—engineering shifts in salience. I’m so far
A merchant is probing for us with his chintz curtain effect. *
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have
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
“must represent the governess for, of course, the creature itsel… could not inspire such terror.” staring at me fixedly, no trace of recognition.
Complex systems can arise from simple rules. It’s not that we want to survive, it’s that we’ve been drugged
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”
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
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever