Fucking buffalo, the curse of the writer.

Steven was a hollow tree of a man — outwardly normal for a tired fortysomething, but empty inside. He lived alone in an old farmhouse that reeked of decomposition and Lysol, the previous tenant having left a dozen skinned raccoon carcasses in the attic.

My grandmother is magnificently breasted in her floor-length nightgown.

The Plaza had a chess-board floor, green wood booths, and the lights stayed up. I might be combining a memory of Fitzie's in Binghamton. The Plaza felt like a preppy soda fountain with beer.

Two types coexist- the sanguine/ and exsanguinated./ My skin is cool/ and pale as moonlight

"I tell you about ten other men who want to love me and two I could kiss in the smoking room of a jazz club, you wonder if I’d love anyone."

Life, like a kite string, is slipping out of your hands

Momma pointed out our paintings on the walls, the signs we had learned, but when Daddy saw our friends, their wheelchairs, braces on their legs, he left...

It was hard, in the crowded vacation house, to make love as they would have alone.

Jon Stewart factoids!

I rifled through the bedside table until I found dirty magazines

Gert sat in the car and wiped at the inside of the window while the defroster blasted at full strength. The shards and slivers of ice that networked across the windshield were just thick enough to hinder visibility. Bane wrenched the door open and shoved

I'm in love with Uzma Goef, a beautiful young woman less than half my age.

I have reasons to believe she’s been stealing.“ “Stealing what?” “Steaks.” “Steaks?”

The next moment is a convergence made from a single repeating sequence that disappears behind the voice that tells of it.