". . those incandescent secrets she would pepper in. The sister who ran away."

what lion lies/ o king of flame/ upon your golden crown?

One cold winter's day she met what she thought was the love of her life. He had everything going for him but his age. You see the sweet young thing was a lot younger than her. One might say that she had lived many lives before he had been born.

Even before I tap on the door I know I am being watched with one eye. My footsteps have surely given me away. A swift tug on it reveals her to me—half of her, that is, and I slink past the threshold, to her. From her eyes I see that she has…

I'm waiting for your voice. My trembling hand is so damp the phone could slip from my fragile grasp at any moment. Each ring burns in my ear and makes the washing machine in my stomach tumble faster and faster. After three rings, or it could be four, or forty, I hear…

Being the baby in a family forces a focused outlook on life. Not necessarily profound, not even wry, but a perspective that pushes for two things - recognition, and to be in on whatever is going on.

... the CBO issued a concise and brilliant report demonstrating that the most cost-effective and permanent solution to the multiple problems presented by persistent poverty in the United States was the elimination of all those with prorated household or i

He injected her with a sedative to keep her still. He projected himself into her narcotic dream, a small bar with tango playing from a jukebox. They were dancing.

“You. There,” said the fellow, pointing his gun like a dead finger. “You believe that water saves the soul, don’t you?” Thomas looked to the other boys for an answer, but they didn’t know any more than he did.

Ivy Oppel was one hard cousin to cry for. And a hard woman, too, but Ooops! Kapow! There's a hole in her head. Not hard enough, then. I'm harder, thought Dumasha. A girl with a gun can have some fun in this world.

my hands splash in to silver and suds in attempts to rinse blues caked in grease away for a while

Her smile like fortune’s cannot be coerced but she opens her peignoir. He stares at the sullen bullethole between her breasts, dark blood welling slowly with each heartbeat. Does he bow slightly, turn away whole? You suppose not. She closes the door.

We write poetry, but are unable to calm ourselves. We need more men of the world (like you) who are not too much amazed by experience. Men who can lead a dual life. Who have sexuality but remain detached, whole. The bodily, the sensual, easy give and ta

London, England. 1999.

There is no life here, only a bleak slab of frozen desert and a sorrowful wind that calls for me to venture out.