Halfway there, I turn and turn again, until there becomes here; here, there.
Author: Dana Henry Martin
American Sentences
Your lectures about the rights of mannequins make me admire you more.
American Sentences
The day unfolds like a leisure suit squashed at the bottom of a drawer.
American Sentences
Wild, I ran toward you carrying peas as peas slipped through my fingers.
Gender Blind
This book I’m reading is dumb, but I’m happy I have the right to read it.
I keep thinking in terms of “or” when I should be thinking in terms of “and.”
It’s always best to take a strong position while at the same time undermining that position.
When all else fails, the printed poem makes good wrapping paper.
You might as well wear a sandwich sign that reads, I like boring poems.
Sometimes all we have is the meat in our hands.
As usual, my day resolves to a series of biconditional statements.
Writing poetry broke me of many strange old habits, although it instilled in me one strange new habit: writing poetry.
“Is” is not the same as “is and only is.”
Gender blind is rarely gender neutral.
American Sentences
Last night I dragged my cloak over the wreckage and filth clung to my hem.
American Sentences
Inside I eat green beans while outside people smoke pot and read poems.
American Sentences
Doilies pasted to a window don’t tell you anything about snow.
American Sentences
Add “huzzah” to any sentence to get to seventeen syllables.
American Sentences
Another weekend: I play a cantata and wait for you to call.
Dana Henry Martin 