I was handed over to a boy called Glen, who I didn't know. Glen had stayed behind last year when the other boys in his class had come to Sydney. I winced at him. He had hair like wheat, and he wore a checked shirt instead
of a school uniform. I felt duped.
I live in the basement underneath a house where everything has changed. Bugs crawl in through the open window, and on the carpet. Once I found a slug making its way up the wall; I put him in a cup and set him free in the backyard where the dogs do their business.
Entwined contemplations of author Chris Hedges (War Is A Force That Gives Us Meaning) and former ad-man Bruce Bauman, and their respective relationships to this essays author (a neer-do-well novelist and ex-soldier); one poem by Gerald Stern and that poets perceptions of God and Paul Giamatti;...
The ramshackle farmhouse on Taggart Road held two Witts, three LeClairs, and one Belmont. Kyle, Hannah, Jessie, Monique, Darren, and Sadie, ages 16, 14, 11, 10, 6, and 2.
Philadelphia-based painter Joan Curran creates urban still lives inspired by the interaction between humans and nature--a constantly fluctuating relationship that reveals both beauty and excess.
I remember the day he was conceived. The day Lily said, "Today's the day." She actually said that, "Today's the day." We hadn't heard about your organization yet, what you do.
"We both know how to manipulate the public. Let's play the game."
"My music really is like a journal, so as soon as I know my feeling or idea has been documented, the song is done. It's so fast and introspective that I forget about the rules."
Jim leaned across the dark cherry desk, accepting the prescription like it was a snotty tissue. He struggled up from the leather chair, a bitter taste flooding his mouth. He was still reeling from the shock. His tests had all come back negative. They hadn't found a single thing wrong.
I knew if I ever got my act together, I could write poetry about Renee. I knew I could feel the heightened energy and will of that skin and put it all into words. She made me think of Byron's Don Juan and Henry Miller at his raunchiest. Who couldn't live with a healthy combination of both?