oh, my sweet treat
don’t stray too long
hear my confession
flog me with the nine tails
teach me a lesson
And if I love you, I am sorry.
I am drawn to large creatures,
We walk upstairs and I don't mention it
You have to let the horse lead
Do not hold my hand
do not lift me up
do not look at me.
It’s too much.
Sand is still sand on the beach and in my shoe
It remains the fine and grinded little rock
That it is by the sea when it washes down my drain
We love it only in abundance, only on purpose
new game:
we play hide and seek
i never find you
i’ll spend the next 4 years
searching
and lose myself
Johnny ignored her tone and knelt down, eye level with the water. “They’re microscopic. You have to use a magnifying glass to see them. At least that’s what it says.” Johnny stood from his crouched position. He pointed at the magnifying glass he left on the kitchen counter. “It’s over there. You can look if you want.”
I just like to ride by the Summit Avenue rowhouse where Fitzgerald wrote This Side of Paradise, his first novel, and ran out into the street to stop traffic and spread the news that Scribner’s had agreed to publish his book. Fitzgerald’s exuberance is now offset by a plaque mounted outside the rowhouse listing it as a National Historic Landmark but not saying why, a more modest, Minnesota-like approach for sure.
What’s that, Your Honor? No, I would not like it if you were to hit me over the head with a fire extinguisher. But, surely, the situations are not analogous. On the one hand, that would be an unprovoked attack on your part. You don’t think so? I see. Let’s put the fire extinguisher aside for the moment then. Admittedly, my client would have been better off if he had done so.
He didn’t accept my offering
Heart of Cain
black smoke on the horizon
sea levels on the rise
risen in the dead of night
But now…now…now there was no denying that something in his life was horribly, deeply wrong. A structure that he did not understand but had always been faintly aware of had made itself violently apparent, and he felt as though he’d discovered an extra limb; for how long had it been there? Was it removable? Who had noticed, who had been too polite to say anything about it to his face? everybody? Who’s in on this?
If that is the kind of love he has to offer,
and I know full well by now that every
kernel of love comes with a rope, then I do not want it.
between operations while her legs could still carry her she paced bubblegum colored
floors decorating the wards with anthemic song through a toothless smile
She brushed a tear away. The dresser absorbed her confession and she could feel the muscles in her neck and shoulders begin to release. She got up, put the stray clothes in the hamper and left to clean up the breakfast dishes.
I just dont like hearing laughter
through a wall Id just rather be
single in a one bedroom apartment
or sort of rolling down a hill
collecting grass and speed
Amy’s brave wise cracks
Every word snaps
Because her mouth forms the sound before it emerges
Knifes in
Warbles out
Grandma waters her lilies,
but it’s the end of November,
and the flowers wither and die
in front of us.
100 WORD BOOK REVIEWS / Dear Ted / Kim Vodicka
Kim Vodicka’s (The Elvis Machine) latest poetry collection, Dear Ted, is a tsunami of words—simultaneously destroying with feminine rage and empowerment the male shitstorm women deal with every day while also honoring women survivors and those who deserve to be remembered. Mixing popular culture and open discussions of sexuality, Dear Ted eviscerates Ted Bundy and other serial killer/stalker/dater-esque men. Reading her poems becomes an act of complicity as each word or image slices male entitlement to ribbons. Even in the rare moments where the metaphorical knife briefly dulls, Vodicka’s poetic onslaught remains a continuous bloodletting experience.