Scratch Pegasus. Last week in a workout the exercise boy—a girl from the North Bay who dropped out of school to ride poetry— heard under the colt’s hoofbeats a rhythm that didn’t scan, that seemed to lift off the track at odd intervals and soar into the morning light for long caesuras between hitting the … Continue reading
In the barking park where the city’s dogs socialize off leash sniffing each other’s butts and tangled strips of toilet paper fly like flags from lampposts and children run on summer’s next-to-last day, fat little finches hop and flit to the rhythm of bicycle bells and rusty ships float anchored on the river like tired … Continue reading
They don’t see you coming with the TV Guide. Their compound eyes scan past the edges. Makes two, says Candace, whose hair corkscrews over her ears. Whosoever opens the door lets in flies. They sit on glass and wait like a self portrait on the outside — whosoever walks through dendritic snow; who calls and … Continue reading
I was a junior and Dan was a senior drug addict in the school of arts and sciences. Neil Young was a prolific songwriter with no allegiances, except for the music. I had never done cocaine before, so while he was cutting it on the square mirror on top of the dresser, I put on … Continue reading
I love you a simple text Wednesday morning at 7:31 I’m half asleep … Continue reading
i guess my favorite fruit is kiwi not because of its taste but because when you see something round and brown you’d never guess it’d be green inside. not white or yellow there is nothing too special about Idaho anyway Nebraska has the same problem minus tornadoes and ditch weed five minutes in Omaha i … Continue reading
You will not see the people gawking thirty-seven stories down. But you can watch the flicker of gentle lights, the church steeple pointing its sole finger in the opposite direction of your fall, the hush of curtains blowing out of the open windows. You will notice that the side of the building has been streamlined … Continue reading
Notice how the old poets go for the jugular, direct to the major artery, no ornamenting around the obvious or making it prettier. Blake says, “O rose, thou art sick!” And Shakespeare declares, “Love is not love/Which alters when it alteration finds….” Milton is adamant, “Hell, her numbers full Thenceforth shall be forever shut.” They … Continue reading
A pariah to his neighbors, Uncle Ken loved dandelions, cultivated them in his yard in Iowa Falls, plucked the blossoms at midday when their rays had spread fully open. Then after his alchemy turned gold into wine, he poured it into old bottles he had scrubbed, then laid them lovingly on their sides in his … Continue reading
After Bosselaar I hate political correctness. Hate it with the bright passion one feels when finally and comprehensively driven round the bend, when blood, tongue, teeth and throat throb at once in the perfect madness of hating. There’s pleasure in this, a sort of ecstasy. My husband tries to convince me my rant is evasive– … Continue reading
Coe Review 