She said this in the bed of a boy named Jeff, who wasn’t really a boy.
“I suppose I am really unaware of my writing process because I never really plan on writing anything, it just kind of happens.”
Rosemary’s Baby entered my life at the same time as my growing awareness of the power and mystery of place.
What is it we wear
when there is nothing left
but rigid names for impossible
I write this to you because I wonder if we can ever overcome what we are: prototypical comfortable liberals with radical pretensions.
We live in the forest because the trees are gone. All of our shade comes from elsewhere, and it cannot stay.
Every night, she waited for Krishna as all milkmaids wait for spiritually blue-skinned men. She met him and waited and met him again.
“Too much of our human existence is based on making money and getting errands done. It’s such a waste of the gift of life, not to celebrate and bring magic and mystery into the everyday.”
Do I miss my half,
my copy, who twinned me & twined
down my spine? Yay & nay. Sometimes.
tablets click into sickly amber plastic like the urine they render so urgent in reverse. click (drop), click (drop), streams of static swishing sound heard on the off-air channels of anything analog.
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