The third lines of the thirty-third pages of the stack of books I am getting rid of (for reasons of space):
Diego reproached him for his luxurious style of living and his opulent
block prints of sword-wielding samurai; and a big Midnight
boiled junkies. They were melting MacArthur Park with their
bird, space, space, bird, space, bird.
The junco is knocked sideways then drops
The water churned and splashed as the animal
waited. I could hear the engine clearly now and knew it was
her sewing box out of the closet.
Muriel was a retired anthropologist who studied middens. She knew a
teacher replied. But don't you feel like an Asian-American? the writer asked her.
It's what I've never seen before that I recognize.
Of the backward devils.
My father stood right there
over, and over, a yellow telegram, it was gripping
mouth, taking my words in,
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