There are things we must not say.

the magic is our making

Only scotch and cheap champagne/ retain their reliable flavors.

It’s important to sound Human, I know To get fragile Near your Mother I myself Get glimpses Now & then Once, Eating chicken, staring At the inside Of a muscle Once During a bad thunderstorm While running down the stairs

I don't need to be toldhow beautiful you are.I'm reminded everytime I open my eyes.What I want to know iswhere you have gone. Whyhas it taken you solong to return? But Iknow the answer You aresomewhere fighting for yourlife. It's what we all doin our own way. I chosepoetry.…

there is a vault in the mountains / that in itself contains infinite vaults

.

Life in astral circles

philanthropy corrugated with a smirk/printed aside every cardboard box and room/every cardboard house with every cardboard door.

An excerpt.

two pairs of arms and legs

It's the little things that trip us up: a small hole in a level field, an innocuous root in a well-trod path, a disinclined sidewalk...

“I have a theory,” she said on their first date, which was at an Indian restaurant where the music was a lovely singsong but the chef seemed enraged as he clapped a ball of dough between his hands, then threw it into the flames. And her date, whom she…

...it was moving toward me from an oblique angle somewhere behind, steadily, relentlessly.

But what “is” retirement? All of the previous sections in a life are full of detailed descriptions. But “retirement” is somehow left rather vague. One would think that retirement would be the long-awaited GOAL of life. But instead we are left with the

But of course, I didn’t get the grant, so my day job in communications at Katzenfeld continued. It was the first job I got out of college. I had been there for over a year and my salary was less than my rent and student loans combined, so I had to keep my

I stroll out to the front lawn, and find myself against the sea of grass, painted daubs within the frame of a distilled rock. My ears attuned to the starlets warbling on the twisted branches of the lone tree, flock of wings that find subtlety and shine in the rapture…