Explore

On a morning in November words appeared at the end of my pen.

David Lee

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

Is that coffee you have, or the hell of fusion in your cupped hands?

For the president’s arrival they shot two dogs making love on the tarmac.

Arrows shot by the halt at the lame,
 Opinions come and go just the same.


Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.

But too much rain can translate anything to unspeakable.

Charlie wasn’t Lena’s first love, but he counted on being her last.

I tell my sister what I didn’t tell my father, I love you. Please, don’t die.

“Oh, Jesus.” It’s the greatest shame since 1929’s stock market.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

My own hunger was for a reduction in the vast space between people.

They cut you off, let fall your hammered silver bracelets to the sand.

Your friends are sniffing glue from a paper bag in the back of an Impala.

I love scientists. They’re trying their hardest. And they just want love.

Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden was edited by Tom Jenks.

It seemed to her that they only ever touched each other in transient, sudden ways.

It is the night of whores and monsters, but without the killings.

Ajax can answer all this killing only with the killing of himself.

Slice a finger while opening a beer can, fizz the gin high in tumblers.

We press closer to look at a picture: a handcuffed boy leaning toward us.

Let him search, Tricia thought, who knew what he might discover.

“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.

Neither fame nor wealth could provide consolation for life’s brevity.