"Well when you’re having that experience of profound uncertainty, it’s sort of like -- anything! Somebody gimme a magazine about anything! I’ll believe it!"
I can’t shake the feeling / there’s something I’m supposed / to forget or else have forgotten / to recall, and I recall / the cool sun sliding into / my mouth and little else.
The first time I saw a bone break / it was an arm. The girl kicked and screamed / to escape her body, twisting on the floor. / It was too much to have a body.
Back in the 90s gangsterism was at its heyday. Every self-respecting boy wanted to become a gangster or something of that ilk. Colleges were half-empty. What more need I say if even I—a huckster in their eyes—wore a signet ring.
Lucas writes from outside the kaffeeklatsch of poetry and education. In short, these poems are human American.
The day I bit an apple, and it bled, I knew we had died.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, you were brewing tea(rs). Love is under fire, in someone else’s home: a kettle’s weak scream. We have died. The snow has turned to water, falling like (sh)eaves from the roof. It is already mo(u)rning.
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit, right-o, right-o, it had been said, and bore repeating. This being the case, feet vanish in snow in the manner teeth disappear into Hostess cupcakes.
She wakes. Her husband is moving her hand to where his penis lies curled like a mouse against his thighs. ... He will want to be inside her, where she hasn't wanted anything since Abby came out. Where everything still feels like a dried up old orange.
He had a desperate radiance. We asked ourselves: what colour / would his lips be dead?