Murder and no names for the excitement of law that the ax cuts my own genitals to butcher her. America sucked on its fuse. The days congealed. The heights of billions of years burned in information. I did not want prose tho the poem could do no more for the Laurel Canyon Road with Deanna…
Sometimes when the sun is perfect as an apple in a still- life with oranges, and clouds are all coming home to me, like horses, the way I want them, and the city is far enough away for once, the ocean no longer a lost coffin to be prayed over constantly, I remember we will…
An Apollinaire is a person with a million Apollos.
It was time to splinter doors. The stairs of water. Blood running from a lightbulb. A gun dreaming in a glove. How does a pregnant woman plead for her life? He shut the book. The light was disabling itself or He opened the book – To deal Upon the vengeance of the Lord. Literature, the…
POEM thicken volition cushion Tom Raworth the lace teenagers’ orphanage Victor Bockris SUNSET lie down in yellow flowers it’s the whole world Andrew Wylie POEM FOR STRAWBERRY You can turn the pages while Mommy changes you. Gailyn Saroyan A Musical Poem ABCDEFG Davi Det Hompson a little thomas hardy Aram Saroyan
I don’t dive for pearls and I don’t expect anyone else to dive for pearls either
Listen I am tired of being killed over and over your eyes whitewash my bones I feel my shadow fading on the wall. I think I look like a mouse small, quick, running under the door. Your wide smile hangs in trees prying apart the leaves; later you add paws, claws, long lusty fur that…
The long black whip cracked at the wind. And the handle. . . If I held it in my right hand, my thumb would cross between her breasts and the rest of my fingers would embrace her back and come around to rest on the inside of her right thigh. But now, her arms are…
The pears fall hushed in the grass like fat pigeons. At first spotted careful as goldfish, a delicate bruise soon swallows their contours. On the boughs pears clench into yellow. (We ate slightly rotted pears as children, our tongues finding the sharp line between use & decay. Sometimes against the core, a worm like green…
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