Just like movies that twist your balls
by the sheer weight of their topic
(such as hope during the sinking
hours of the Titanic or Bill Himself
in love), there is poetry that kills
those tender male organs or their
female equivalent. Robert Lowell,
Frank O'Hara wrote, was good for
that. And of course something with
solid oven imagery about the poet's
end will do a reasonably good job.
Pardon me for being facetious,
tasteless and crude and lacking depth.
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Volunteers making noise
In later days I heard that you had
Swallowed lumps for breakfast
I sat in darkness, closing throat
Felt my own lumps swimming up
Listening and wondering
Of spun-out olive branches
I went away and thought about
All the horror, all the fear
All the tears I’d shed so far
And wondered, could I help?
Could I stand there to make a change?
To help one person in the world
Feel less alone, less isolated
I told about
Loneliness and solitude
Rapture and revulsion
Violence and martyrdom
Kissing girls and
And now there’s more of us
Northern girls with tales to tell
We reap and sow the seeds of change
And write our lives for you
We write for revolution
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.