To the Slaughterhouse
No one is home, or maybe they arethey’re just not answeringwe cannot connect fingersacross the electronic divide data mines data
Experimental literature and art
No one is home, or maybe they arethey’re just not answeringwe cannot connect fingersacross the electronic divide data mines data
Eddie sees TV faces when he looks at us. When he sees himself in a mirror he sees himself on
-Old but a “when are you going to grow up” old. That’s what he is. Still light on his feet
Thick books of poetry are dauntingseemingly taunting from behind their coversraising phrases that could’ve been yoursbut pushed by others we
I tilt away from hearing her as she explains her nature as though it were a theatrical arrangement to a
I am an onion beneath the surfacea bulb petrified by the flashI think myself into faceinto attentioninto mass reflectioninto oblivious
All it is is flipping the visual around to the other person’s perspective. That fear and anger with which you
Like every aging manI think about the things I would do or say different if given a do overthe others
Ooh, I get so mad I could scream; and I do! Yes. Everybody else too. No. Everyone doesn’t have the
Blinded by the clockcounting dollarsindexing worth to secondschained to interestworth in existenceI am an hour Everything I say or doleaves