No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Plummeting to the floor, a switchblade might resemble an Olympic diver, who enters the water as seamlessly as a pocketknife cutting into a piece of satin. There is much to be said in favor of competition, the results of which could be as arbitrary as a Powerball number.
My Experiments with truth of a handful of hidden nuances sandwiched in the crevices of this colonial tomb in the corridors of our patriotic psyche...
I hope that when he is an old man he remembers skipping along supermarket aisles and Robert...
I wouldn’t mind being empty for a while. All of the people inside of me, even my loved ones, staying with friends across town.
We placed a tall drought on the San Joaquin. Monitored it closely with birds eyes collected. Black Raven beads. Hermit Thrush pebbles. Turkey Vulture marbles and the beryl gems of Red Tails.
But, perhaps, sight is more Than what Jacques knew. Up from orlop's shelf, A crawling back to an age Above the boards, Bearing back to Arden.