81–100 of 11462 Poems
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From “The Sonnagrams”
BY K. SILEM MOHAMMAD
on thoth’s ****
From Sonnet 75 (“So are you to my thoughts as food to life”)


A groovy day, a fish fillet, an elf hair, . . .
Homer
BY TROY JOLLIMORE
Schliemann is outside, digging. He’s not
not calling a ***** a *****.
The stadium where the Greeks once played . . .
Ocean Park #17, 1968: Homage to Diebenkorn
BY LARRY LEVIS
What I remember is a carhop on Pico hurrying
Toward a blue Chevy,
. . .
Per Fumum
BY JAMAAL MAY
My mother became an ornithologist
when the grackle tumbled through barbecue smoke
and fell at her feet. Soon she learned . . .
The Archaeologists
BY JULIA SHIPLEY
found pins
by the millions
while meticulously . . .
The Break
BY FRANZ WRIGHT
Then he stopped
dead on the sidewalk
astounded . . .
The Companions of Odysseus in Hades
BY A. E. STALLINGS
Since we still had a little
Of the rusk left, what fools
To eat, against the rules, . . .
There Are Birds Here
BY JAMAAL MAY
There are birds here,
so many birds here
is what I was trying to say . . .
Twelve Thirty One Nineteen Ninety Nine
BY LARRY LEVIS
First Architect of the jungle & Author of pastel slums,
Patron Saint of rust,
You have become too famous to be read. . . .
Whethering
BY A. E. STALLINGS
The rain is haunted;
I had forgotten.
My children are two hours abed . . .
Make a Law So That the Spine Remembers Wings
BY LARRY LEVIS
So that the truant boy may go steady with the State,
So that in his spine a memory of wings
Will make his shoulders tense & bend . . .
A Midsummer Night’s Stroll
BY PHILIP NIKOLAYEV
I.

I am a man.  I’ve lived alone.  I’ve been  in  love.  I’ve  played  with . . .
[The water was rising...]
BY LYN HEJINIAN
The water was rising, I got up on the bed
Still wearing the Hawaiian shirt he had on yesterday
He used his thoughts to draw a rudimentary circle on the wall . . .
[A straight rain is rare...]
BY LYN HEJINIAN
A straight rain is rare and doors have suspicions
and I hold that names begin histories
and that the last century was a cruel one. I am pretending . . .
[But isn’t midnight intermittent]
BY LYN HEJINIAN
But isn’t midnight intermittent
Or was that just a whispered nine
A snap of blown light low against the flank of a cow . . .
Third Poem for the Catastrophe
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
O
melting rainbow that embrace this roof
O . . .
Dear Fi Jae 2 (Ms. Merongrongrong)
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
Now I know what it is to bite the tongue inside

the mink stole: I do not want . . .
Self Portrait
BY CYNTHIA CRUZ
I did not want my body
Spackled in the world’s
Black beads and broke . . .
Kingdom of Dirt
BY CYNTHIA CRUZ
Soon the ambassadors from the Netherworld
Will begin
. . .
King Prion
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
—Hoooooooo
Lay in an array of pixels
Fat, simulated proteins . . .
«3456»

101–120 of 11462 Poems
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What I Eat is a Prayer
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
Then in the August of my twenty-seventh year,
naked except for my seaclogs,
I greeted an audience of piers. . . .
Bureau of
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
This is the body of,
waiting to turn on.
. . .
The Siren
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY
The puppy must be learned of all this material.
No map of the hospital. First, the war effort.
Then, the war itself. The water makes and remakes . . .
Hotel
BY PHILIP NIKOLAYEV
Time to recount the sparrows of the air.
Seated alone on an elected stair,
I stare as they appear and disappear. . . .
Tendency toward Vagrancy
BY PHILIP NIKOLAYEV
I’ve long had what Soviet psychiatrists
called “a tendency toward vagrancy.”
At four I would run away from home . . .
Survey
BY DONALD REVELL
I am so lonely for the twentieth century,
for the deeply felt, obscene graffiti
of armed men and the beautiful bridges . . .
My Factless Autobiography
BY ALLI WARREN
I arise around survival of the event
as worse than the event
The whole place surrounds the smell . . .
Apple Blossoms
BY SUSAN KELLY-DEWITT
One evening in winter
when nothing has been enough,
when the days are too short, . . .
Brasil
BY FARNOOSH FATHI
Left a hole on fire agony or was it the sun
on the banks and near duets?
Eagles with the white wine of the sun . . .
Honey/Manila Portfolio
BY FARNOOSH FATHI
This is not a book. Otherwise, by now
We would love each other.
You would not put me first, . . .
Two Hear Cicadas
BY FARNOOSH FATHI
BEEF: We are here between trees,
with the tempo of a rosary being strung
in a queue of escalating beads— . . .
Memory
BY FARNOOSH FATHI
Over the night a bull
Whispers into a coal
. . .
To the Censorious Ones
BY ANNE WALDMAN
I'm coming up out of the tomb, Men of War
Just when you thought you had me down, in place, hidden
I'm coming up now
Can you feel the ground rumble under your feet?
It's breaking apart, it's turning over, it's pushing up
It's thrusting into your point of view, your private property
O . . .
Beastgardens
BY LUCY IVES
first garden

Beastgarden. . . .
Early Poem
BY LUCY IVES
The first sentence is a sentence about writing. The second sentence tells you it's alright to lose interest. You might be one of those people who sits back in his or her chair without interest, and this would have been the third sentence you would have read. The fourth sentence, what does . . .
Black Swan
BY STEPHANIE YOUNG
After the second conference, I would be cast in the role of a young dancer with a prestigious New York City ballet company. I would be cast in the role of the mother, a former dancer now amateur artist, whose career ended at 28 when she became pregnant. I would be cast in the role of the . . .
Essay
BY STEPHANIE YOUNG
I guess it's too late to live on the farm

I guess it's too late to enter the darkened room in which a single light . . .
A Practice Known as Churning
BY ALLI WARREN
I went to the city some days
to learn my master's pleasure
& laid fort at the farthest place . . .
The Help I Need Is Not Available Here
BY ALLI WARREN
I need help with long term hope
I need help with the dawn
of war and achieving . . .
All My Activities Are Feeding Activities
BY ALLI WARREN
Dear Commissioner
here are my directive accounts
of genitals and cash . . .
«4567»

She was a friend of Amber Clark
You know, you've met her before
She's the girl who listens secretly
To Bach behind the door
The Closet Classic ******
Who wears shirts of the Ramones
But listens to Rachmaninov
whenever she's alone

Jennifer McSweeney
known by all upon the street
She had kind words for everyone
She liked everyone she'd meet
She ate meals at Giannis
Knew the Pawnbroker, Old Cy
She listened to the bluesman
Whenever she came by

Like all the folks upon the street
Jennifer was dark
Not gothic, but you could say grey
She was set to make her mark
She was going to be famous
Her face upon the Silver Screen
She was going to be a movie star
Like The Truck Stop Beauty Queen

Jennifer loved movies
Not the ones that can be found
At the local dvd store
She liked the movies without sound
Her little quirk was that she
Liked the movies from the start
They told tales in black and white
These were strong in Jenni's heart

Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Fatty Arbuckle, and more
Zasu Pitts, Charlie Chase
They struck her to her core
L and H, The Keystone Kops
She loved to see them grapplin'
But none of these compared to her
deep love for Charlie Chaplin

The Cineplex would show a film
They would host a special week
When silent movies were the shows
When nobody did speak
Jennifer would take the time
To watch each film they showed
She was so happy when the week came round
She positively glowed

The kids she knew, all thought her odd
Because of what she liked
But, when the silent week was here
Jennifer was psyched
One year she went to the next town
To get a small tattoo
It was all done up in black and grey
It was what she had to do

Like other girls who have been inked
It was in the same place
But, it was little, very non descript
Of her favorite actors face
She told few friends about it
And though she never did get violent
If you laughed at her tattoo
Like Chaplin, she'd be silent

She kept it to herself most times
Her little bit of ink
As she aged she'd show it more
For the cost of just one drink
She would take them to her bedroom
And by the light of her small lamp
She would show her tattoo proudly
Chaplin....her little ***** stamp

It's the thing that she is known for
She's the girls with Charlie's face
Where others all have Chinese Words
She has Chaplin in this place
She is known for loving movies
In black and white, and though it's camp
She gives a whole new meaning to
Having a ***** stamp.

By
MEG ELISON


I am the very model of a modern-age millennial,
I’ve got no cash, no house, no kids, and student debt perennial,
I know the rules of Tinder, and I’m not sold on monogamy
(For what it’s worth I think that stems from troubles ‘tween my mom and me)
I’m very well acquainted, too, with matters on the gender front
Myself, I am nonbinary; your labels I so do not want
Been disillusioned by my expectations with a lot o’ stuff,
The skills with which I am equipped for life are frankly not enough

My job prospects are hobbled by insistence on a living wage
Compete at entry level with some washed-up folks at twice my age
In matters of identity, employment and such petty ills
I am the very model of a modern-age millennial
Preorder the brand-new edition of the 2014 version of Boots Riley’s Sorry to Bother You—originally published with McSweeney's 48—and you'll receive your copy in September. Now a major motion...

On Monday I killed Applebee’s, on Tuesday I axed country clubs
I’ve never bought a diamond and I have no use for cashmere gloves
I quote dank internet memes in lieu of sharing actual thoughts
For earnestness has been passé since sometime in the early aughts
Still advertisers flail and fail to capture all my buying power
(The sum of which amounts to renting GIG cars by the paltry hour)
I’m subject to the bleak nostalgia of Generation Xers
And YouTube sensibilities adored by web-savvy youngsters
So I get to the take the blame for our country’s tanked economy
While fighting for my basic rights and ****** autonomy
In short I’m ****** in matters from the vital to the trivial
I am the very model of a modern-age millennial

In fact, when I know what is meant by "social justice warrior”
When I can tell at sight a fascist MRA conspirator
When such affairs are treated as unsolvable new mysteries,
I shake my head and wonder if the Boomers studied history
When I have learnt what progress has been made and then just flushed away
My generation’s best bet looks like playing Fortnite drunk all day
In short, if you’re angry right now and spewing aged white vitriol
Remember you created me: the modern age millennial

For I’m the generation raised upon the game Monopoly
You’re hoarding all the wealth and jobs and mock me for my poverty
So now I’m skewing socialist with discourse quite ungenial
Please check your local ballots for the modern-age millennial