#Americans #LanguagePoetry #Women #FreeVerse Poem, Prose
So these are the hills of home. H… nearly subliminal. To see them is… double, hear bad puns delivered wi… An untoward familiarity. Rising from my sleep, the road is…
There were distinctive dips and shivers in the various foliage, syncopated, almost cadenced in the way
Shooting pleasures Ok’d by My being seen For Or as
Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.
We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the
You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,
A girl is running. Don’t tell me “She’s running for her bus.” All that aside!
The jacaranda, for instance, is be… but not serious. That much I can guess. And that the view
Complex systems can arise from simple rules. It’s not that we want to survive, it’s that we’ve been drugged
A career in vestige management. A dream job back—engineering shifts in salience. I’m so far
What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…
spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!
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
You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever
“must represent the governess for, of course, the creature itsel… could not inspire such terror.” staring at me fixedly, no trace of recognition.