Mint upon my palate, I rub sleep infused eyes and crawl under the covers. Oh blessed sleep, please descend upon this body and transverse this fatigue. Eyes closed, bring a wavering blackness upon subtle lids. The conversation begins…

The phone rings. The oven beeps./ The locomotive whistles and howls.

Three teeth. You can pick them out if you hit pause just right. Probably not a person in the entire valley who hasn’t seen that video from the Eastern Cheerleading Finals. They even showed the tape on the eleven o’clock news in Scranton, my face ci

Mr. Wazzeldot has seven legs. He lives very comfortably. He likes to sit by the fire. There's a large cushion for a chair, and in the evenings, he sips his Bloody Marys. I know because I visit him…

Tender bodies sizzle on the grill.

I was always bi-polar. I didn’t realize it was a mental illness until my divorce lawyer had the court order a psychiatric analysis.

Wall talks to wall. One has a clock, the other a window, the third a cupboard with bandages etcetera. The fourth a door that opens and closes a thousand times a day.Chair is across from chair. Occasionally the one looking for care picks the wrong one to sit in, and there is…

I contemplate the words that did not make it; the lost ones. The words deprived of their moment in the sun. These words. These words that are not part of the story.

We’re more into the punishment that works its way in through the skin and coats the heart anonymously.

Blend the dog a drink and sit down beside him and draw straws for regrets.

Mark Reep is a faded Polaroid oracle taped to the only unbroken window of an abandoned house in Ithaca NY.

If I seemed disappointed after our conversation, then, for the record, that was never the case.

the lonely, only

Later, when she said she'd had miscarriages, I should have put it all together.

You beckon me with an aperitif. The Kir Royal tingles, its bubbles tickling my nose. Its subtle black courant pulls me into your smile. I drink from your lips the champagne-tingle of your kiss.