Poem by Margaret Young
I have a problem with mad anything except in adverb form.
I have a problem with mad anything except in adverb form.
...who sent you a link to her reading in Houston, who wants the name of your publicist....
The heart is a crater, a cardiac whack from an accidental asteroid on its selfish passage.
Younger, the infestation would have been loss drilling through my middle.
Nature is a noisy thing, and mammoths don’t walk lightly.
I notice buds late to their blossoming, a flaw that makes one realize sunlight offers no clues.
So, the unknown unknowns, as a man in a gray suit once enunciated.
Are humans any smarter than frogs in a pot?
They offer, at least, some character, even plot, unlike the traffic cone on the curb.
It was the best of times, until the big man whose clock struck thirteen made it the worst of times.