just before my break,/ he came on the line,/ old and slow with computers now/ but wanting a discount/ he'd been told he qualified for.

Neither of us thought of real winning. We set about brilliant losing, dark angel forms of luck and greed, the desire, the craving, the need to lose so strenuous that one wins; we tied at thirteen.

Or, do my own red flags counter balance his. My back and forth, my restlessness, my one foot out the door, my ‘once a leaver… always a leaver’, my pitter patter for a former flame... peppered with my transgressions, my mistakes. Or, worse, the way I have

Ginny, the mother, was a lark in every respect of the word. Born and raised in central California farm country, to a family of lower middle class means, educated in public schools in whose bathroom stalls she was deflowered as unceremoniously as a pig ta

The trouble with alarm clocks is naturally that they are miserable. And their curse is that their misery is useful: we employ them because we want to get away from them. But we would never have one as a friend.

‘what’s the hassle kiddo, chopping meat is fun, come here and listen to the music of the chop, the sound of steel ripping through air, slicing through flesh and hitting wood, poetry I say’.

they taught art

We’re going to talk about our future like the Rick Dees Weekly Top 40. Like there are 40 great songs this week about our future.

Mayumi noticed everything moving in real time. Everyone just stared and a woman approached her to see if she was okay. Once Mayumi felt the woman’s hand touch her shoulder, her skin crawled and she ran.

To listen is to feel embodied reason// sing and dance with consummate grace

Sorry, I think I was jotting and not writing. I see a dropped article that would clarify my interest. I purposely didn't describe my alcohol use. There, I just did.

—Strip down to your shorts. Put on this gown, open to the rear.

No matter how bad his hair turned out or how avocado shaped one of those miscreants could make his head look, he would remain silent.

Cultivate your vaginal tears at the gates of Thigh and Holy.

But behind the shops (and the many pubs), at the back of the narrow cottage fronts which line the wynds are secret courtyards, surprising gardens and more light than ever imagined.