Dear Jack, Then I had the shingles. They cut up a river from the small heart of my back where I can't reach. I thought it was my pelvic wall unmeshing, but I checked and the wall was still nice as a purse. Instead it was the shingles coming out to play. I'd bite down a chair leg and the leg would give a little under my milk teeth. This is how come I know about static.
a yellow minnow swims up his esophagus and kerplunks into the the bowl. he licks the bile and Listerine from his sour lips and tastes his breakfast and the woman who bought it for him.
Siddartha and his monks are gathered around the fire. The day's begging is done, the meal is eaten; the moist evening air clamors with insects. The monks are squatting in their yellow robes. Even in the heat, they press close...
A storm rolls color around / the mountaintop, sky given over / to the deeply hued. / The river, stirred to sultry, / carves the village up.
The weather won’t hold—a sigh of capitalism in the clouds / and everybody is making out on Clark St, which is to say // we funnel our reaching through mouths.
I’m going inside myself until the bones of it, brittle as old nails, are replaced with fat new ligatures greased with midnight fishermen and lost time, the need merely tugging politely until the damp coat falls...
Two days after a possum / was dragged through our lawn / some breeze (north) / brought his delicate stink.
What's the difference between enthusiasm and the gasoline you put in your car? When you think about it there isn’t! Both provide the “juice” to “drive us forward”!
My feet out the door and she in the cat cage so quiet clamored for more feet doing something right. And yet, I lingered near the car before getting in, smelled the sky before the car’s safety flooded us.
Real writers work even on Sundays. Raymond Carver made no mention of church when he said that. If one thinks of steeples, is she sufficed for the night?