the melancholy of a straight line of same-sized trees
the principal’s chair like a golden cloak
how many roads
running toward the shooter, shouting
the vacuum of grief quickly fills with kitsch
I went to bed hungry & woke up full
“Would you like ketchup with your freedom fries?”
survivors at Virginia Tech described him as looking almost innocent in his scout uniform
I dreamt about writing a book titled war canoe
dried wildflowers could be incorporated into a quilt full of names
all young males in the target area are presumed to be terrorists
the terrible coolness of indifference
how many roads must a man
both of them running, pitching forward
according to the Washington Post, the expanded kill list is known as the “disposition matrix”
the melancholy of angels that never learned how to pollinate
“How many bees would you like?”
in my dream I loved how the deserted street felt to my bare feet
the children hidden like stowaways in lavatories & closets
coats from the Army-Navy store
a fisherman’s sweater knitted to look like fish scales
just as bullet points rarely liven up a slide presentation, the sound of a gun is far duller than you’d expect from the movies
it was dark before I reached the end of the block
“How would you prefer we got rid of the crows?”
after the power comes back, the clock can’t stop blinking
