I prefer a pencil formed from cedar timber, painted, lacquered, imprinted with gold— Half the Pressure, Twice the Speed— a medium that will readily
It isn’t enough that we are butchers, taking apart What struggled so hard to move in concerted grace In search of seed or stalk,
Our cars were old. My mother did not shave her armpits. My father wore Birkenstocks. Our house was built in 1885. We rented. My
The name of every beau, I remember. Aproned Mom kneading dough, I remember. High on song, we left with Cramps’ guitar picks, car shards