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Harold Smithe awoke that Tuesday morning precisely at 6 am. He did this every day for as long as he could remember. Even on the weekends when his schedule varied. Well, varied slightly. He lay in bed trying to wake up and mulled over the things he needed to accomplish for…
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She's had a magnetic sign made for the side of her Honda, TRUTHMOBILE, simple and elegant. Maybe too simple; she's worried it suggests a religious affiliation.
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...the relatives didn't seem nearly as fucked up as she thought they would be considering...
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The night we broke into Bron-yr-Aur it was too cold to make love. I said I wasn't horny anyway. You put your hand on my forehead: Are you ill?
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I let the little fingers slip thinking they couldn't stand to hold on anymore. When they were done they said addled and I was left behind in the room with only my hand. I hurt myself trying to picture the pretty girls and they took out a piece above my eye. …
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On September 12th, 2011, the ban on deer hunting became official. Apparently, the hunting and killing of deer had become too cruel.
The ban had been a long time in the making. Ever since man began hunting deer way back in the day—somewhere between a fe
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The game is set, thirty pound gobbler at the center; brined, browned, and buttered to perfection.
The players take their places around the table: Reagan’s_Disciple and BraBurner38 sit at the head seats, eyeballing each other over a fizzing bottle of dom
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It's only just a poem. The good that's in us is us. There's a monstrous thing trying to get out and ruin things. To unbalance everything standing on tiptoe. To end the dance. To grab the moment and burn it down flat to the ground. They are…
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Shannon refused to jump from the castle drawbridge to the gigantic truck tire sunk halfway down in the playground quicksand. He just stood there-arms folded across his chest, bony knees sticking out from beneath ratty cutoffs-in silence, looking to Rollie
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For a time he documented his facial expressions.
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or.
Have you ever contemplated smashing someone's face to The Stooges' Fun House?
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You can ask so many questions
Of what’s it all about
You can empty out the closets
And roll the mothballs out
But no one has the answers
It’s all a mystery
There’s a bigger picture
But it’s really hard to see
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The weird thing was that standing here with himself, or what appeared to be himself, he had got so self-conscious that it was almost paralyzing.
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why were ghosts in wry mirrors feeding on hope?
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I’m reading an article about honeybees as I wait for the results of my blood work at the doctor’s office.
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“Hey there!/
Here I am, a fucking moustache!/
I’m the biggest damn moustache/
you’ll ever see
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Last time I heard from you, you had been smoking crack with a hooker in the doorway of city hall
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She's an obese woman whose clothes don't fit: shirts that ride up too high her belly hanging out her pants suctioned to her strangely pegged legs. Her ballooned cheeks are always chapped pink her lips little slivers peeled back over small beige teeth like…
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"Heaven-high, choking on our own breath and each other's tongues."
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Don't feed it to the dog, it has bones, it is a whole goddamn chicken in a can, and I can't stress that enough. Besides one year you gave me a toilet seat for Christmas. I couldn't even eat that Ky
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I study the architecture of hunger. I listen to intuitions. I have a map of heaven and a map of hell and they are the same map.
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The questions we ask ourselves define who we are as a culture. “What is the meaning of life?” “Is there a God?” “Does anybody really know what time it is?” “Where the hell did I put my car keys?” To see what…
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Wasn’t that you
Giving me the finger
Or was it just
A dead ringer
For the finger of love?
Finger of love
Finger of love
Did you find someone’s dog do
On your doorstep last night
Something didn’t smell right
In the middle of the night
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Two Roman busts have come down to us, both copies of supposed earlier Greek originals, from the 4th. century BC.
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A fractured world we haunt: the streets, the schoolyards- Across the floodlit roads, where we shared drunk adonics: No marbled halls but towers that stole the stars' eyes- Flat-roofed serrations against…
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So I'm digging, clawing the black earth, disappearing in its ore and shadow.
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I want to read a story that ends unhappily ever after: one where the bad guy wins and no one gets the girl.
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I hope some of my students will go on to advanced studies in Charlie’s Angelsology, maybe write a master’s thesis like “Kate Jackson: Third Wheel or Brunette Glue That Held the Angels Together?”
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I also understand if you don't think that's fair. But consider this: If she doesn't operate according to those rules, then where are we? Isn't that anarchy?
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