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Her husband wouldn’t let her call an exterminator. That doesn't work, he said. The real reason he said no was that he was cheap.
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She was sick and tired of marriage. She didn't want to be a mother, but now she was.
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you may meet the man of your dreams.
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He had the cannonball head of Hemingway, the stump neck, sloping shoulders and barrel chest.
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A woman posted a story on Fictionaut about discovering that her husband was a werewolf.
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a bird who gives messages
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I realize the kid is still smoking. Shocked, I tear the cigarette from his mouth, throw it to the earth, and grind it to death with the heel of my boot.
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Frenchie hustled waffle irons.
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We danced the pee dance after too much Seven Up and tasted odd Jello dishes.
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When Kat returned home from The East Street Wars, she learned that her epileptic lover, White Dog, died from madness
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It is indisputable that poets love roadkill...
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chains across all the old doors
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There are lines//
across time, beyond the tug/
of elections and fashion,/
beyond the turbulence of history
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I am the ritual/
banalities of days numbered,/
numberless, and numb.
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I suggested when we passed the flesh shack that we turn around and that I go in and say to the sex workers that the Russians are fetching $3.5K per hour in Manhattan and it's private, unlike there at that road-side shack.
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Sitting together at Starbucks, we composed a long love letter which we've been mailing back and forth to each other, signing our name upon each receipt and returning it for the last nine months and it has grown to eighty seven pages, barely fitting in a shoe box.
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In those years,
you and I were told to leap
for a world suffused with sound
and industry.
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One of the drunk men, a dear friend, hunk, as he updated me, now living the existence of a poet, called from San Francisco to say he would take the plane to Minneapolis, do it, then leave me to raise the baby.
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Just a little shop girl in for the summer. Working on a typewriter. Barely knowing where the keys were. That was her. She was terrible at it. He was in a suit. He looked short, and thin, but something about him was captivating. He was in his own way hands
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You should really see my father's bunions. They are as obnoxious as fuchsia bowling bowls.
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...what will happen to me buying drugs on the street, at night...?
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When I come to suck fresh raspberries'
juice from your hair
pressing the clasp of my mouth's purse
on the oyster of your ear;
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I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO SAY TO YOU, she lisps, and, with this, the fissure in the man’s head reaches the bottom of his chin and the hollow head splits in two.
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...but still, when she whispers that going out now might put her in the mood later he unties from his mooring and sets them both drifting toward the gin-splintered latitudes
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Are you there? It’s been so long since I had someone to talk to. Besides Oscar and Wilde, I mean. I feed them crumbs of bread. They’re my pet rats, my only friends. Besides you, of course. How kind of you to remember me! How shall I begin?
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“I want to show you something pretty.”
She looked at me, chin on her chest, watery brown eyes looking up. Skin tags on her eyelids made it difficult for her to look as coquettish as she wanted. She tried to flutter what was left of her eyelashes, but syr
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And on nights like those I conjure Martha's childhood, a little girl who could make the whole world fall in love with her, with those goddam big seashell eyes, enticing adults to fall into a blue-green sea that never ends, never promises survival.
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She was petite, pear-shaped, white, the girlfriend of a friend who'd done his degree in Russian Literature, but that's not the only reason I liked him. The husband I had for a while traveled whether he needed to or not and so I'd go with Julie and Phillip to movies,…
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