Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

  • High Cheekbones: a beautiful post

    May 9th, 2017 | Beauty | journalpulp | 2 Comments

    At the bar, when the drunken reporter recently asked, “Are you a tit man or an ass man?” I replied: “High cheekbones” (improvising a little on Karl Shapiro): Verlaine compares the buttocks and the breasts: Buttocks the holy throne of the indecencies. Breasts savored by drunken lips and the tongue. Buttocks with their ravine of […]

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  • Waitress

    Waitress

    April 25th, 2017 | Americana | journalpulp | No Comments

    She works in a diner called the Desert Rose which sits along the northwestern edge of Colorado, near the Utah border. It’s a small and undistinguished affair, worn and weathered but always brightly lit and burning like a little beacon in that high American desert. Triangles of cherry pie sit bleeding in the pie case, […]

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  • Sweet William

    Sweet William

    January 25th, 2016 | Americana, Poetry | journalpulp | 1 Comment

    I My father laid-out flat on the mortician’s slab Looks purple and peaceless. He’s buried To the chin in starchy sheets. A small frown Is stitched into the middle of his brow, And his eyeballs are contoured roundly on each Eyelid. The floor crunches under our restless feet, As if the ground is eating, as […]

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  • Spring: Babbling Like An Idiot and Strewing Flowers

    March 28th, 2015 | Writers | journalpulp | 3 Comments

    Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) — nom-de-guerre Nancy Boyd — American poetess and playwright, who at age thirty won the Pulitzer Prize, then only the third woman ever to do so, was catapulted into fame at nineteen, when her mother encouraged her to enter a poem called “Renascence” in a contest for The Lyric Year […]

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  • Early Winter

    Early Winter

    November 7th, 2013 | Poetry | journalpulp | 4 Comments

    The flashing scissors of the frost Have snipped the leaves that dot the field. The trees leak iron-black across The sky where evening swallows wheeled. A knifey light cuts deep and shows Leaves with their intricate designs Half sodden in the drifted snows, Beneath the moaning, deathless pines. And wind like water softly pours Over […]

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  • Autumnal

    October 12th, 2013 | Poetry | journalpulp | 7 Comments

    Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite […]

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  • High Cheekbones (A Post about Beauty)

    High Cheekbones (A Post about Beauty)

    August 21st, 2013 | Beauty | journalpulp | 7 Comments

    At the bar, when the drunken reporter recently asked, “Are you a tit man or an ass man?” I replied: “High cheekbones” (improvising a little on Karl Shapiro): Verlaine compares the buttocks and the breasts: Buttocks the holy throne of the indecencies. Breasts savored by drunken lips and the tongue. Buttocks with their ravine of […]

    Read More

  • Autumn

    Autumn

    October 4th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite […]

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  • Detail

    Detail

    July 13th, 2012 | Poetry | journalpulp | No Comments

    The cat eats the praying mantis By punching it to death, Pushing it with her paws, Playing soccer with it, Tossing it in the air, Carrying it around in her jaws And finally, when the insect Has no more motion or flutter, Chewing its green head off. — Karl Shapiro

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  • William Faulkner Answers Student’s Questions

    William Faulkner Answers Student’s Questions

    June 17th, 2012 | William Faulkner | journalpulp | 11 Comments

    “No man ever put more of his heart and soul into the written word than did William Faulkner.” — Eudora Welty In 1947, at the University of Mississippi, William Faulkner — an extraordinarily inconsistent and difficult writer whose work is almost invariably frustrating, and yet a writer whom you cannot ever quite dismiss (the following […]

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