poetry: results 553–576 of 735
The summer we tried to kill ourselves it was humid.
The summer the floods came.
We ran headfirst into the water, and when that didn't work…
or you may arrive by helicopter
(a way to kiss over paperwork)
I'm going to melt
a cross, a statue of the Buddha, and the arms of Vishnu
into a hood ornament of a naked woman with wings of fire,
set it on my car and follow it like a compass.
The man stands on a birdbath to learn
the language of feathers, and like the wind,
when the man speaks, he reaches
deep into his pockets to charm the sky.
The part that I forgot about the robots
(Making them moral) speaks as now I dream
In actual rain (or am actually dreaming rain)
Of ghosts in the machines.
Suppose you're me, for just a minute—that's what I'm asking you to do—, just suppose for a minute that you're me, and ask yourself what it is you want to hear, because that's what I want
Halfway to wilderness behind our house, on a tray I carry the ingredients for our supper.
She will soon hear your heart
beating her cheeks flush,
think of the baby
stretching its fingers for the bait.
We say, "Revile or Rejoice!" as if
there was a choice in the matter. I turn to you;
our eyes are trying. Shrieks of seagulls marry
across the water.
…this morning I was
I haven't had sex like that since:
deep in my anus, heart…
Weather descends the stone steps—
sea of hats, hoods, shoulders
headed to the trains. Somehow I remain…
someone's horse. A loose horse.
Whose horse? Maybe a favorite.
Am I from the countryside?
I ask the horse or the building.
Jenna's got a gangster rapper in her breast
halos and Hula Hoops in Jenna's breasts
Jenna got caffeinated coffee in her breast
Jenna's got Jimmy Hoffa stashed away in her breast
We are standing in a window, looking out at windows. The windows on the other side are blind. They are on the other side. To look out is to see; to look in, to turn slowly white.
Wake up 5 A.M. & the prairie is raining
white birds. The moon appears. The moon
circles the sky. My mouth is a dead lamp
looking for its light. The river is a tape loop…
Try a sweeter martini,
flakes of a little dry laugh.
I saw your mouth trailing off except one small leaf.
My eye never filled with blood.
I never asked why
was I drugged and held down. Taken away.
Mesmerized. I wasn't a two-headed dog…
Shit has a history & it's balmy golden
notes off a black clarinet. Damp &…
In the middle of it, being riven
apart by a finger, by a stiff tongue probing
the blind bone tail of my spine…
The message of this afternoon could be a hollow nest
if fairgrounds in a park can feel this empty.
Yearly returners to the empty desert lots
blossom in this wintering.
You spank me with library books about horses and nature and cruelty. I can jump out of clouds and over fences just as you can turn corners in Schlachendale.