Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
We stop doing dishes while a mile unwinds from the tree outside.
four-thirty a.m.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
I buy too much, for someone of my stature. could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin. its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
I am still waiting for the lion
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?