Can’t you do anything right?

Mostly, though, reiteration of the old/ in an idiosyncrasy that strives/ to become fresh and fails

She hadn’t died. She wasn’t a ghost. She wasn’t even invisible. She just wasn’t see-able.

Both his parents saved their pent up Puritan pasts to fill his ears with brimstone clichés. "Idle time is the devil's playground", he would tell me, scrunching up his face, stuffing it full of meat lovers pizza.

Sitting near her desk, like a dunce cap, red

You enter the lobby of the office building tentatively at first - you're a little nervous about this interview, after all - but you recall how spectacular and professional you dressed that morning. Plus you read through the company's LinkedIn profile at least five times…

My fingers are shining in the underwater afterlife of memory searching for the nipple-sized mollusks searching for the solid nature of things left over from having lived a life at all That new rain smell, specifically I remember that,

My wife is making lunch. I suggest leftover pizza. We are going over to the neighbor’s house for pizza tonight, my wife says. I tell her that’s okay. I like pizza.

He remembered waking up on those lazy summer days hearing the sad song of mourning doves.

Writing as a form of imaginative hatred

“Why do you write filth?” they howl

My spooky cat got out again. Under the deck she ran. Out came the hose that chased her about. Fur spiked, tail pointing, yowling, she hissed at me, and back in the house she pranced. It's been two days now. She slithers out for food after…

A little contempuous aside by the critical theorist guy, Frederick Jameson-- that it was logically absurd to call anything that human beings do, produce or effect “unnatural,”-- has brought forth the following. We are…

A wrinkled man lie atop an ivory-clad mattress, matched sheets covered his body, matched hair covered his head.

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