His name is Rick Reynolds. His name is Steve Redford.

The moon poured more/ light into the sky/ yet we kept on talking

Hoo-ah! I love these open mikes, I get a chance to pour it out, this… whatever it is, this passion, all this love from I’ll never know where, and then, and then, sometimes, too much hate. Everything’s like all zowie!—splashing scarlet and purple,

Never mind that they cost millions per year just to amuse the monkey bone in us all or that they spew pollution or that their only real purpose is murder. They are justified by skill and thrill.

19. You never know yourself till you know the dust. 51. Treasures are the ligatures between our wants and love. 33. Truth is able to turn one's stomach.

On shingle of seashells & Bullet shells, Ghosts drift along the shore Of the Black Sea.

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.

It was bound to happen. Even celebrities can only take so much. The constant comparisons to Christ (people still think He was born in December), assumptions that he was anti-Semite or anti-Islam, and accusations from PETA, now ad litem for…

Dear Ray Bradbury, yesterday was my thirteenth birthday, and I could not stop thinking of the Mennonite girl in the milkwhite bonnet, the squint of her eye, the twitch of her anxious finger on the trigger, sudden holes bloomi

Then I am wearing a brightly colored raincoat while sitting on a deck among hundreds of tiny glowing spores

This was just noise now – pure, raw noise, grabbed from their throats and flung high by some sharp claws of violence buried in their breasts. Even from his third floor apartment, they sounded like they were right outside his window now. It was if they h

My playing would falter languidly, and transcend itself like a wishful Nocturne

The women were increasing their writing in the restroom. I asked you later why women only talk on restroom walls, and you said, why do men only talk on restroom walls? I told you as much as I could remember of what had been written.

Her memory was a faded pastiche of the past, and indeed the present sat uneasily in the middle of the dreams that governed her mind; so it was that often she would forget the day, the time, the year.

They articulate my failings as a human being./ They articulate my greater rage at human beings// here for such a short time and at the precipice already