1954 13 6
|
And so it begins, like this, waiting to long for a lazy train out of West Toledo...
|
1954 16 15
|
When I died, she said, she was going to have me cremated and put my ashes in the cats’ litter box.
|
1954 6 4
|
Light. And shade. Line and shape. Colour, form and perspective. Wall, wood, ceiling or canvas. Pigment in eggyolk or linseed oil. Stroked by brush or spread by knife. On small panels or plastered on vast spaces. All these problems to be worked over and solved. Then …
|
1954 12 11
|
Everything would've been copasetic except about the time we got down there they put the turkey in the fryer..
|
1954 1 1
|
For a fleeting moment, eyes seemed to clear and the man spoke as if he were coming out of the pea soup fog that formed over the lake on spring mornings.
|
1954 16 15
|
The dancer was a little chubby, but I didn't mind. It gave her more to shake.
|
1953 2 1
|
He lays his piping accoutrement on the bedside table, removes his cap, brocaded jacket, boots and slacks. Holmes brushes gently, the back of his hand across the confused face of Watson— their…
|
1953 18 19
|
|
1953 5 2
|
I think I’m the best Marilyn Monroe there ever was.
|
1953 1 0
|
|
1953 15 11
|
There was nothing to do but dream ourselves forward. Nothing to do but not die.
|
1953 9 8
|
The stand is designed to clasp two guitars, one on either side. She cradles an Ovation in her arms, a guitar variety our high school friends used to call a soup bowl. In the stand is an acoustic-electric hybrid that I toyed with for ten…
|
1953 2 1
|
One night the woman went down in the
basement, grabbed an electric drill, and let the voices out in eight places.
|
1953 12 11
|
Call him a hobo or homeless or bum or junkie.
|
1952 2 1
|
Beard of Bees
My father always used to say to me, he said "Son" (he called me son) "Son. Falling in love is easy. Getting into the Guinness Book of World Records is hard".
|
1952 5 0
|
Okay, let’s go swing by The Strip. Appositely labelled. A little cutting of concrete Britain, torn off and transplanted here in the Greece of antiquity. Strip teasing. Divesting the flush Northern Europeans of their pleasure tokens, in return for token
|
1952 0 0
|
|
1952 3 1
|
|
1952 1 2
|
In his dreams, he swam in piles of pills. Sometimes the piles were infinite, other times the were contained, tonight the pills were intense shiny reds, chalky yellows, deep blues and matte purples and swirled around in a children's inflatable castle. Derek swam happily,…
|
1952 10 8
|
La Petite Ange had lived all her life in Paris under the strange architectural twists of Notre Dame. She had been a Bluebell girl once, kicking her surprisingly long legs into the air to the delight of plumbers and Prince du…
|
1952 16 11
|
Is there a recipe for / lasting happiness?
|
1952 12 8
|
"Everything except food and sex."
|
1952 13 5
|
Dad woke us up and said it was time to go.
|
1951 5 0
|
“No, dad, I've never seen urine colored pearls.”
|
1951 6 6
|
4. A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes.
> > (In my next life, I want to be a pig.)
|
1951 1 1
|
Steve Bancroft’s future wife showed up at his door that same night, slamming her hand loudly against the door and shouting for him. “Steve, Steve, wake up. Damn it, come on. You forgot to pick me up at the airport. Who are you in there with? I said wa
|
1951 4 1
|
At that time I was meeting Jacob at 3:30 each afternoon in Joan of Arc Park so we could walk dogs together. This was our job.
|
1951 1 0
|
The summer before cancer—the summer of the boy/friend, the summer before Max started high school, the summer when all the decisions about blowing apart their marriage were made—they drove to Martha's Vineyard. Astrid had insisted she wasn't going, rig
|
1951 22 12
|
So, how did they meet? After years and years of starvation and gruesomeness and lack of human contact because there were no humans left, only walking corpses, a woman gently lifted the sixty-pound dead man's penis with a cool washrag and wiped him clean. The dead…
|
1951 7 5
|
“Ah Willie! Ah my boy! You poor sweet faced youth. Gone now! Our memories, Willie, our memories will haunt us forever with your laughter, your joy, your enduring excuses, your misspellings & badly slanted penmanship. Oh Willie. My boy. Gone & gone f
|