It’s all about potential, I guess. Is that the same as hope? Don’t know.
I tell my therapist it’s like a backpack, there are pockets I still have to explore.
Her statement had a dramatic effect, because her hair was floating in practically every direction. It looked a little like a painting of a sunrise.
Say I told these stories to a shrink, unfurled each episode/like a story-board, spoke them without undue inflection.
But I also don’t let such apprehensions stop me from writing as honestly and personably as I can.
He set down my cup, showing me coffee trees,/
Corpus Christi costumes, the totora boats/
drying upward to the sky, the salt collectors/
in the Sacred Valley, sand.
You point to the pheasant. She’s sad, too. You’re both sad together.
But all he wants to know, my gorgeous lover of words,/dirt, puddles, and the sky, is why I “broke” his fall at all
Rogers had to sing that very song over and over and over again for the rest of his life at every casino across America. Doomed to experience his own success, forever.
The members of my online poetry workshop
gear up to discuss sexual assaults of yore