... a moth, a kiss. A silence.

...painted by my mother with meticulous attention...

We flew./ In my dreams, I can fly.

a current forecast

are my only real friends. They don't seem to mind my shuffling down the dirty sidewalks without acknowledging their mere scraggly presences like friendly tombstones. They are growing their hair out again. I've noticed that much. We've got a…

(I woke once from a bad dream to throw them from the drawer, but my hands were so clammy, the coins stuck to my hand! I had to scrape them off my palm on the edge of the table.)

But if he's been photographing her for almost thirty years, there must be close to 11,000 images. During the session, they don't speak. And, after so long, words are not really necessary.

Little tech puppies, well compensated for code/ that outsourced laborers will realize in supercheap,/ superchipped gewgaws, sip artisan beers

I can never tell if he’s drunk or using some sort of substance or if perhaps his brain just doesn’t fire at the pace that we have come to accept as normal.

Sasha and I had snorted a table of cocaine and I had her trapped inside my Joy Division bedroom.

Usually I’m the only guy in a roomful of women. Some of them are foxy, too.

...the job was easy, just pour and deliver, pour and deliver.

and the smiles light the way when the wind blows the darkness

Endurance wears the soul thin.// The hour to succumb ticks ever closer.

Tell me how magnificent my mind is