I look good Together Got these penny wings I could actually fly with It all becomes so clear Sound goes down Sanity returns in an instant The night is bigger... I’d rather stay near the ground I’m not a practicing angel

The Mojave Desert remembers Ron Paul With tattered billboards Scraped and clawed by vehement dust

I remember when we first met, telling my friends, He’s so pretty I’d dump my boyfriend for him. I remember driving all around Elmhurst looking for parking. We sat in the car eating figs and popcorn. We tried to throw the fig pits or stumps, or wh

He and she are fucking while I watch. She's moaning deep desire and he's pounding flesh into flesh. I'm fully clothed, eyes attune to their fornication, studying. He comes inside of her; their bodies stiffen and then wriggle against one another. …

I could have said no. I should have said no. Prudence, however, was not in the air. Fourteen minutes later I am at the door of his condo a few blocks from Pier 39. Twenty minutes later I have wriggled into his extra wetsuit and am following him on his wif

I discovered Ripple (by that fine winemaker Gallo) in a dusty “specials” bin at the back of a liquor store near skid row, off Maxwell Street, downtown Chicago. You may remember me bringing these bottles home with their screw-off caps. We drank tons

It was 1986 when I met you. We both lived on Decatur Avenue in a tank that had enough room for you, me, and all our fake plastic accoutrement. I was 30 years old -- really old for a jellyfish. Some people thought I'd die sooner. But I knew better. I was…

Until millennia have passed and the world is dug up For future historians to ponder And through their meticulous disassembling of dirt They will find my book.

Keisha selected a strawberry swirl cupcake from the waiter's tray, so pretty, from the hottest, coolest, newest patisserie. Moist strawberrylishious cake, swirly pink frosting, sprinkles. Keisha was one lucky lady, scoring a bizdev gig at recession-proof…

I found you at Darrell’s, the bar down the street. A place where loose women and tight men might meet.

As I was reading “Not Your Mother's Book on Home Improvement,” a new collection of light-hearted essays by (primarily) middle-aged female do-it-yourselfers, it became abundantly clear to me that, unlike the women who tell their stories here, I am not a…

carrion is no longer hauled away:/if the road killed it, it must be the road’s . . .

The sky was dressed in a wedding gown. The hooves of my horse clicked like consonants on the stone of the butte.

a disease/ like junk-sickness/ like a jealous lover/ who discovers competition/ and meets it with a blade/ in your heart,/ not hers.

I clearly see the squirrels of negativity all around me, ladies & gentlemen. I sensed they were there filling in the blank spaces as I read down the page, prior to arriving at the meaning of everything.