If living in France bothers some people, they should feel free to leave the country.
this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter. . . Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box.
Free is not an alternative. My company did not turn a profit last year.
maybe i'm exacly where i should be after all.
When introduced at the wrong time or place, good logic may be the worst enemy of good teaching.
I think anybody in front of a crowd is a comedian.