That sadness of white bread— To weave a noose of farewell Like the lightbulb over the supper table Transcribing a circle, where your forehead meets the world, Where your words become other people And you are doled out, eaten without butter. * * * Because I love you the ceiling and the air Suddenly matter. Split clear…
take me I'm paranoid enough to imagine the woman with towels steams letters off my corrasible bond and rearranges them to tell the cooks not to serve me the right meat I have English publishers who will scale sheer stone and glass on days when nothing much is happening my typewriter's often mistaken for the…
With the flat side of white plastic spatulas three old ladies hunch on a park bench, slapping gobs of blackberry jam onto slabs of dark bread. Nearby a hobo rolls over on his belly, spots the women and thinks just how sweet that jam would taste. Slowly, he gets to his feet. The women do…
with the roof suddenly in worse shape, “structural damage” and my totaled car I need more, you know than any continuing education class can pay for poetry and fiction for three weeks and you could use a break from New York City ice. Listen, we'll start with something like EST— you know how they stopped…
“Sutton,” my wife says, “the girls won't wash between their legs.” What am I supposed to do about it? I think, having just come in from buying round steak that I will try to tenderize with a mallet, then salt and pepper, dredge in flour and fry and serve with green peas, biscuits, gravy. But…
The Nazi within me thinks it's time to take charge. The world's a mess; people are crazy. The Nazi within me wants the windows shut tight, new locks put on the doors. There's too much fresh air, too much coming and going. The Nazi within me wants to be boss of traffic and traffic lights….
Because he'd heard menopause was hard he forgave her the unmade beds, the cold meals— what he couldn't accept was the way she looked: the slip all yanked down below her dress, the hair pasted with grease and sweat to her neck like wet crepe paper. The hospital would have to come and take her….
For Willem Dafoe, Ron Vawter & The Wooster Group 1 So how’s it going, folks?— broke, exhausted, shtuped and duped again. You can take it. Hell, the meaning of life is taking it, in the mouth, the ass, the— o-o-o-h it feels so good. All together now, stand up, bend over and say a-a-a-h. Now…
Twelve murderers are eating their dinners, veal cutlet and walnuts, pickled pigs' feet. Somebody sticks his head through the door. The inevitable question is asked. Not me, says Biter; nor me, says Shooter. We didn't do it, says Choker and Stabber. Nor me, nor me, say all the others. The door closes with a bang….
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