#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women
What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have
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
Shooting pleasures Ok’d by My being seen For Or as
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
The doll told me to exist. It said, “Hypnotize yourself.” It said time would be transfixed.
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...
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way
spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!
With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—
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,