I Feel Horrible. She Doesn’t
By RICHARD BRAUTIGAN
I feel horrible. She doesn’t
love me and I wander around
the house like a sewing machine
that’s just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.
By RICHARD BRAUTIGAN
I feel horrible. She doesn’t
love me and I wander around
the house like a sewing machine
that’s just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.
A Boat
By RICHARD BRAUTIGAN
O beautiful
was the werewolf
in his evil forest.
We took him
to the carnival
and he started
crying
when he saw
the Ferris wheel.
Electric
green and red tears
flowed down
his furry cheeks.
He looked
like a boat
out on the dark
water.
By RICHARD BRAUTIGAN
O beautiful
was the werewolf
in his evil forest.
We took him
to the carnival
and he started
crying
when he saw
the Ferris wheel.
Electric
green and red tears
flowed down
his furry cheeks.
He looked
like a boat
out on the dark
water.
Love Poem: Centaur
By DONIKA KELLY
Nothing approaches a field like me. Hard
gallop, hard chest — hooves and mane an flicking
tail. My love: I apprehend each flower,
each winged body, saturated in a light
that burnishes. I would make a burnishing
of you, by which I mean a field in flower,
by which I mean, a breaching— my hands
making an arrow of themselves, rooting
the loosened dirt. I would make for you
the barest of sounds, wing against wing,
there, at the point of articulation. Love,
I pound the earth for you. I pound the earth.
By DONIKA KELLY
Nothing approaches a field like me. Hard
gallop, hard chest — hooves and mane an flicking
tail. My love: I apprehend each flower,
each winged body, saturated in a light
that burnishes. I would make a burnishing
of you, by which I mean a field in flower,
by which I mean, a breaching— my hands
making an arrow of themselves, rooting
the loosened dirt. I would make for you
the barest of sounds, wing against wing,
there, at the point of articulation. Love,
I pound the earth for you. I pound the earth.
Love Poem: centaur
by DONIKA KELLY
I have never known a field as wild
as your heart. Or galloped or hardened
my breast in the sun. I call my own bluff
and bravado: what I apprehend needs
no apprehension; what I make, stands
undone. Here is my hand, soft, uncalloused.
Here, a lock of my mane. Now, I am afraid
and so I turn to the field. The flower
and red beetle and winter light. The cardinal
hen. Your pretty brown bird cutting the sky.
by DONIKA KELLY
I have never known a field as wild
as your heart. Or galloped or hardened
my breast in the sun. I call my own bluff
and bravado: what I apprehend needs
no apprehension; what I make, stands
undone. Here is my hand, soft, uncalloused.
Here, a lock of my mane. Now, I am afraid
and so I turn to the field. The flower
and red beetle and winter light. The cardinal
hen. Your pretty brown bird cutting the sky.