by Chris Butler
These are the words of Sam Hammil,
but most poets swallow the pill
the morning after
to abort their poems,
rather than giving birth
to flippers.
October 28, 2009
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October
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- Waiting
- Cleaning
- SUDDENLY GONE, THE ENVELOPE OF SLIVERS OF WHAT I H...
- LOST, LOST LIKE PHOTOGRAPHS CLUTCHED AFTER DISASTER
- in retrospect, maybe we are all Buddha’s
- there was a blanket on her eyes so I left her in t...
- Linda’s Place Again
- Poetry is my Fetus
- ABERDEEN
- TWINKIE TWINKIE TWINKIE
- THE LOST ENVELOPES OF MEMENTOS
- THE LOST JEWELS, THE LOST ENVELOPE
- it’s still a good deal
- some advice for aspiring poets
- nice guy
- dialogue of faith and highway
- crash
- Moby Dick’s
- WHEN I LOSE THE ENVELOPE OF WHAT MATTERS
- drunk at the kitchen table with my grandmother
- the bum feeder
- not all women are cunts
- a dull lady with big calves
- Quicksand of That Good Woman
- MOONRISE, HERNANDEZ, NEW MEXICO 1941
- invoice
- WHO’S NEXT
- that's entertainment
- no laughing matter
- THE IDIOT
- Education
- Shallow Dating Pool
- Con-spic-u-ous
- erotic asphyxiation
- Port In A Paper Bag
- Posturing Leprechaun On An Acid Trip
- The Landlord
- The Reprieve
- asshole
- the doors of hell have numbers on them upside down
- THE HOLOCAUST (3)
- THE HOLOCAUST (2)
- THE HOLOCAUST
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