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Who is the moron that invented the Snuggie?
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in late fall, Rome, sans wind, sans rancor,
sans sand or rain, sans hate ...
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Facebook just hit me with an ad for coping with memory loss, probably because I just turned 63. As far as my favorite social media site is concerned, I am now an Old Lady. When I asked my Facebook pals who are also Seniors what kind of promotions have been turning up…
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124500
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Darrell looked at me, then down at himself. He was still in his wet underwear. "What is this?" he said, looking up again. "Where in the hell was I?" He shook his head. "It was weird, Philip. Boy, that was one wild dream."
"That was no d
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Just beyond the corkscrew slide / the President of Egypt was bleeding to death
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My ChurchThe white dressThe bridesmaidsThe friends, the familySadnessMy church knewno music
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A cloudy autumn morning greeted Sean as he stepped from the trolley at Grand Central Station. On his way to the tracks he purchased a copy of The New York Times dated October 24, 1934.
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Gyan Ban Thoughts - This post is about aspiring models.Scores of these dreams get killed everyday under the arc lights. Exploitation is rampant and millions of cases go unreported.This story is of one such incident.
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There is truth you can’t escape or say any other way and expect it still to be truth.
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Detective-Sergeant Claude Mulvihill was seasick. He was in a New York City Harbor Police boat in the East River headed towards the George Washington Bridge. There was a good chop in the harbor, which became worse when the Police Boat reached the Battery.
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Not long ago, Owen the Second showed her a skull. He kept it in a brown cardboard box in the top of the closet. "My first wife," he said, and sneered, his lip bunching up around a scar just under his nose.
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Usually I’m the only guy in a roomful of women. Some of them are foxy, too.
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Her preferred post-coital activity is to pant, to suck in air with urgent greed.
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I ain’t your kissing cousin
That’s pretty plain to see
Baby, keep your pretty lips
Far away from me
I ain’t your kissing cousin
That’s pretty plain to see
You’re really very pretty
Come kiss me and we’ll see
We don’t live in a barnyard
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Lama’s mother is dead. She died when Lama was just outgrowing her ballet tutus. When Lama talks about it, it is with the air of one who picks honeysuckle over jasmine. It gives sunshine, she says, to graves. Our epitaphs are so mechanical otherwise.
Un
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"I found a grey pubic hair the other day."
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The mind sparkles with Shakespeare. It's like hearing the rain fall. The world becomes silent and dark and the rain becomes snow and falls like snow and rests on the ground like snow and informs the mind with the values of heaven. A distant oboe pins its sympathies…
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powerless against the memory of the earth-bank and the river flows, through a susurrus field of a million quills
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In the panic following news of my motorcycle crash, my honey fled the house without coat or wallet, and now, nearly midnight, we don’t even have cab fare home.
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No one has touched me for a long, long time and I believe that is why I am dying. This is a notion that is new to me but it has persisted over the last few weeks and I believe I finally have apprehended the truth. There was a time, I remember all too well,…
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“Is truth real?”—what a time for such a question to emerge! Such an elementary question, too, a pity no one was asking it two days ago.
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it's the constant reminders of something that was never a constant remind her but i suppose there is no ticking clock on that which is wondrous and it was right right it's hard to come up with cleverly phrased universal truths and it's hard to make…
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Everybody breaks.
Everything splinters.
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How could a leaf be an accident?
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She liked talking to him, even now, when they’d spent three years talking. She thought about other conversations with other men at other bars, some of the bars on the water and some of them tucked behind shopping centers or off of different h
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Defy the impulse to grow beyond/
your means and the means of the/
place where you lie at night.
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—It’s difficult to say, he said. I have mood swings. Women don’t like that. They become upset.
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Slipshod shoes were the first sign of a meltdown. Sometimes she could see it coming. A prickly gentleman washing his clothes on a Thursday afternoon. One week he’s fine. Nothing wrong with owning a sour face. The next Thursday, his shoes don’t match.
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not of time, but of all the clocks/
that tick along toward the end/
of all the possibilities.
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I walked along the beach today, and there I saw them all; including the latest lost: little Tiven, Tommy, Michaela & my Paul. Grandma painted at her easel, set upon the dune. Uncle Eddie bent in half, laughing like a loon, Oliver growled…
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