I like the cool and dark beneath my rock./ It protects me from the glare and scorch/ of noonday sun and the chilling shadows/ of midnight moon.

each act of creation is a jolt of expectation

It’s that time of year. The combustible mixture of booze, poinsettia corsages and the soulful sounds of Eddie Venturi and the Fastidians will cause people to get up and dance at holiday office parties who have no business doing so.

“Psst."I paused in my tracks as I walked in front of the building where Two Doughboys used to be.I looked around. The streets were deserted. I saw the big “For Rent” sign in the empty window where the sweet smell of pizza used to emanate. “Over…

Some nights I want to take my father’s glock / and build my skull a sunroof.

Further down a small group of men lolled near a doorway.

In the backyard with Joey, I make the mistake of answering him honestly when he asks what the gray brick in the dirt is for. “My parakeet is buried there,” I say. And he asks, “can we dig it up?”Joey's grandma lives down the street; he comes over…

some are cameras, some are daggers, some are sauces pans, others are swords, and some will run off and others will burn a hole into the spot which they land.

"Don't be dense."

I remember the days when my brother and I would walk down Tillman Square, careful to avoid the cracks zigzagging along the ground. Well I did. My brother made a point to step on every one.

Star-eaterHere lies the star-eater.Tilting on the ancient wheelof summer-glaze-breath,you speak the oceans. Fire's the mealfor you, the star-eater. You defy death,and out of your mouth, a universe openspouring forth, as fleet as the starslight on your tongue. Space…

I nearly burst out laughing when I heard myself telling him in my accented English that she’d confided in me that she was preparing to sacrifice herself as part of an elaborate snuff film produced by a band of psychotic artists hell-bent on making up for

His Danger Pistol was out of bullets, his Bag of Tricks was empty, and he wasted his last can of Antimatter back at the lab. All he had was his Charm and his wits. Charm wouldn't last forever, and he'd always come up a little short in the wits department.

Dear Brandon Lee: I know that you're dead and can't respond to letters, but I've always felt a connection to you.

We exist to facilitate/ successful conclusions of hopeless lives.