No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
This movie could be a turning point for Hollywood’s writers if the modern North American audience is ready to face a strong leading lady who simultaneously holds such a strong contradiction within her.
throwing out my brother’s autograph book from grammar school
Swan Song
to tears, I am tragically bored the spines creased, the birds alone in their forests whistle sweet little songs to warn the others: this is my spot, my tree, my world you’d better stay away.
I write with the tips of my fingers, extended through each digit from crackling knuckle, out from the wrist and down from the elbow, the shoulder, the neck and then the rotting brain, the brain, the mysterious box of rain that I can’t explain further.
One night I opened the back door and saw a possum wandering through my yard in a relaxed manner.
the day before they came back, shrouded in an untouchable truancy like martyrs suddenly sitting up on the battlefield somebody said the word lesbian: that was a word we all knew but had never thought to say, before. “let’s talk about that,” the new teacher said. let’s not, i thought. now I sit next to them in my dreams,
under the shaft of light, glowing like it used to.