Phoebe is in Central Perk with Ross. Ross is writing a poem to Rachel, unlikely as this may seem. Phoebe listens to him recite it, then Chandler walks in on the last few lines: "And Joey is a noey like Hannukah with Monica, so you see, you're left with me." "Monica and Hannukah?" says Chandler. "Gee, Ross, I thought you quit poetry." (Titles) Joey, elsewhere, is cooking with Rachel. They're baking a birthday cake for Chandler. Joey's idea. They're counting on Phoebe to keep him stalled. So, naturally, Phoebe tells Chandler to write a poem for Monica. "It's Phoebe's poetry workshop!" Chandler relents, but writes four lines for R

              perpetuates lonesome in the sand, belonging to the shelves and miskept stacks of a bedroom.  It is a cooled chaos, a verdant wolf eye bead in which we are by movement trapped in lunacy!  A mid-game molecular Jenga tower in which I play a part as you do, tenant to a tentative position bearing the weight of every thing on the shoulders of every one, captured frozen at the fall. Wooden cheques suspended en masse descent, pieces fixed clacking against each other or finding themselves harsh against their neighbors' back - or lucky to touch vertically momentarily and proclaim soul mates. The beach extends beyond vision a

Andrew Motion there are no ashes on his hands. there should be ashes everywhere as he reads, ashes smeared into death rites. the poet in his black jacket dresses to mourn: words birth themselves into the air as suicides sometimes do, hesitating on the sill, his mouth, and then the word inseparable from the air passes through the air; and we are the boys in a field, blindfolded boys beneath the sound of a jetliner: the sound we follow to all ends of the field, to the ring of soil that is the bodies that in darkness we trample; this is why, I imagine, he must read these words to us, these images of dying horses, pained t

Getting out of Dodge, My white Ford Getting out of Dodge, my white ford From the view of a motel 6 With the interstate roaring four directions U-Haul vans decked with boats and car trailers Jake-breaking trucks spattering diesel From four cities, and four directions Seeing America from the back end of a Ford. Where I have gotten the hell out of Dodge As I am goaded from 200 miles to nowhere To rest my tangled head covered in dust As I wrap my reins these car keys Around my wrist as I call up on the telephone To say cackling, "Yes I'm fine, Dodge City, I don't know. I am nowhere halfway somewhere Watching stoplights and gett

___________________________ Sometimes, I just pray for another attack. Bombs, planes, boxcutters. I don\'t care how. I just pray for something horrible. I do it because I really just want everyone to hold hands, and to be able to cry together. That\'s not a bad thing. It\'s really not. (she wasn\'t sure why she decided not to.) ___________________________

Someone is going to produce The best poem ever written. It will be blessed with one hundred and three lines Of genius, and a hint of luck. The lines will not be overlong But not too Short. Each stanza will be written With vigor, on purpose And will never exceed the limit of Seventy-six syllables... Or something like that. In this poem there will be a man. This man, though, will not be a hero. Nor will he be a loser. He will be just the right type of Everything and have only one tragic flaw Which will be... This man won\'t hate women. He will respect them, but not to that Too much point; this man will not Be whipped by a

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this now this taut air this is a midnight rendezvous, a hushed affair between skin and ivory, a hidden shift between reality and memory. here the piano extends a delicate hand, chilled, brass pedals licking the warm pad of a drawn, bare foot; the intimate embrace in a fingertip found reaching. in this reverent communion, his world could spin itself back into the ghostly wave of a gentle hip, and drape her weight across his chest with the familiar grace of ache and a rest abandoned. .nate.wright.

And if you should tear it right, my Origami heart bleeds Ink onto paper, Spelling out in words No one's used for years, That you can only find in Old dusty dictionaries, the pages of which I have a habit of tearing out and Folding into little abstract characters and Making them have fights on my desk. My verbosity Begets obfuscation; Producing strings of sentences, Words arranged carefully as Thos flower arrangements Your order by mail To give to someone you barely know because they've Done something.   My flowers are made from the same Pages as the little monsters I play games with, The same games that everyone else play