#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—
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!
What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…
A girl is running. Don’t tell me “She’s running for her bus.” All that aside!
Shooting pleasures Ok’d by My being seen For Or as
Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
A career in vestige management. A dream job back—engineering shifts in salience. I’m so far
Card in pew pocket announces, “I am here.” I made only one statement because of a bad winter.
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
“must represent the governess for, of course, the creature itsel… could not inspire such terror.” staring at me fixedly, no trace of recognition.
Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”
The jacaranda, for instance, is be… but not serious. That much I can guess. And that the view