so I returned to the salted road/ cruising past dark snow/ and trees no cars/ no other lights/ for miles just ice
So this girl messages me/ do you want to hang out sometime./ So I look and see she actually has a boyfriend./ The boyfriend as it turns out is a reindeer./ And not only that, a metal display reindeer.
If you stay long enough, you’ll/ wave, too.
While i cry i think/ Wingeth Paltry.
Every no is a yes in a no-colored dress
Does Billy know and does Billy know what it looks like? Do you know Billy? Do you know, Billy? If it’s only me and Billy in a room, does she care if she sees? Did you expect Billy to be a he? Is he a man? Can he dilate?
we are too many questions to ask his bones.
I just need someone to be able to love me for at least a decade, one humid and symmetrical decade, until they look at me one day over breakfast and see the empty quarry that I have never once stopped cutting slate from.
Well alright for a while I won’t be/ The whole unruly masterpiece mess/ I’ll just be a simple pencil sketch
I mean when you gather up/ all the insides of yourself/ and then it all drops/ like kids jumping/ in a moving elevator
She said something beautiful. I don’t say anything beautiful.
I am now trying to write about all this but words are never enough to describe the loss of words. The words of my own language had become objects already then, the words of the other language are objects too, maybe even more gnarled and barbed. Every day they must be brought from a storage room under your house, where they lie dusty and crammed like appliances and bicycle wheels; then you must carry them up on your back and carefully arrange them, so that simultaneously with the text you also build the walls of the house, so that you have a bed to sleep in, a cup in which to pour the coffee.
I love you, you wrote / Report suspicious message? / No Google, trust it
I was born inside a stereo.
In her poetry and conversation, Langa acknowledges a debt to a wide swath of European poets – to Auden and Cavafy, Rimbaud and Joyce, Rilke and Tomas Tranströmer. Yet she is a quintessentially Latvian poet, building on the massive folk tradition unique to this Baltic country, stretching right back to its Sanskrit roots.
What is the part that ages?/ The part that moves on?
How does the sleeping person react to being thrown into small places?
Evan Watson works as a wilderness ranger on the Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest in southern Oregon.
Bookshop, temple to the printed age/ will soon close -- liberating language.
From mom’s bedroom, / A crooked legged cripple/ Emerged. It was dad.../ I walk the same way! Our gene pool is bad.
They are ancient sundials in motion: lumbering for their lives, monitoring gloom, faithfully following the planet’s rotation to exist only in sun.
The question was: define tree.
Ars poetica More light! More light! Insect Gift Eating together.
You’re exhausted. You tell me you’re/ exhausted, so you should sleep;/ and not worry that I'll write on/ your face with a Sharpie,
Kept, trails, of gun / undistracted / Lined alteration’s figment / we cut the tree / to / move it, image / damp When thing is many / arrays / have not understood / Translator, diminish over them / left to meant to us / scratched, illness, the absence of / turning into thing / is the mountain eats men...
Another savory feeling in my mouth. Starless solstice morning. My dad Drops me At high school And I’m alone Again. It’s a snow day. I don’t care. I go to the dark room. I love the empty Gymnasium, journalism room. It’s ok. The janitor is also here and he has a set of keys and will give me access If...
Insect Time Consult a termite queen before she scratches off her nuptial flight wings and after, when she sweats fat inside her earthen capsule where she once nestled with her king, nymphs in love with solitude. Who counts seconds when every third she lays another egg of a quarter billion? She grows translucent. Colony-whirr fills the cathedral mound above...
I’m very serious about the problem of knowledge it is so very deeply Shakespeare being among them then the problem of knowledge is real a sense of reality that’s a meaningful i think us in a constellation a diverting portrait of language a deep elusiveness in reality i will put up my microphone but before i go...
You may dress as you wish as a state fair ewe or a deep sea fish. It says: You girls are perfect saplings. You had fear I could smell from my chair but because you have been practicing and practicing you were able to forget I was there. You have shown a keen interest in pitch and...