1337 1 0
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There's one graveyard for the part-timers and another for the full-timers. Ours is a little nicer, but we're still all going to hell. Do you remember St. Petersburg? No, you're memory's not that good.
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Antique pens better allow an old soul to express what needs expressing.
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1337 1 0
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From my office window, I watch the trains roll in and out of the city. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of passengers staring out windows as the train slows, the ones who have another destination. I've been on those trains before, ones that took me far away from all that…
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It didn't matter if they burned or not.
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We all wish to partake in great events.
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She felt like she was turning into someone else, someone who appeared normal. She would be inundated with everyone else's ideas, morphing into an insipid lemming, smiling and bantering about mindless things. She wouldn't even care she had changed...
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I wonder what it would be like to dog-paddle in the middle of the ocean.
I wonder how Jean Auguste Ingres got the flesh tones for “Odalisque.”
I wonder if bees have dreams.
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she lays there
wrapped in his baseball sheets
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“After your death is confirmed,” I assured him, “a hardcover first edition of your books, will sell for millions at auction in New York.
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Samson was also somewhat in hopes that his son Jason would become engaged in this minor capitalist enterprise and 'turned around' in his life.
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They say that air traffic control is stressful work and I guess it is for some people. It did require a lot of concentration but that never bothered me much. I could keep the position, bearing and altitude of a couple of dozen aircraft in my head without
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1336 0 0
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Perhaps she’s also a do-gooder. One of those socially conscious, change-the-world type girls complete with a never ending supply of life’s own contagious enthusiasm.
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A minute later, a shadow appeared across the left-hand page of the book.
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When I was alive with you inside me, I discovered briefly and finally how to fly. Up near your ceiling as I floated around the universe with widening eyes, like a butterfly, like a god, like a bird with golden hair at my neck, like a speckled moth infla
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1336 1 1
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my soul is black and it's deep like heartbreak and heavy as stone and as thick as ink and it is pressing on top of me like last nights one night stand like dead weight so that I can't lift my arms or spread my legs it feels like I am walking through mud but it's…
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Obituaries aren’t as much fun
as they used to be.
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1336 0 0
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an island hidden in the sound holds treasure
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The bathroom had exposed rusty pipework, A minty lemonade smell, Ice in the urinal, And a wall of stone-cold mirror. She put some lipstick on, but it looked fake under the lint-covered bulb dangling overhead. She wiped off the lipstick but…
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1336 0 0
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After all, if she could get through World War II with no more than a couple of letters and numbers on her arm, she could, sure as hell, get through this.
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This world is always at least as strange as it seems, but usually far more strange, so many non-repeatable phenomena . . . .
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But in 1991 Carmen developed a heroin habit and was forced to sell her powder blue, convertible Mercedes 500SL...
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The gulls/
have somehow mastered the art//
of avoiding the nooses of six-pack/
plastic rings
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Memory is unreliable, of course-/
re-coloring savored scenes-/
paler here, more saturated there-
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There’s an account of roasting inward, holding myself like a rock inflamed, my inward joy rotting my veins. How was I supposed to go on loving anything after you? Like a pigeon hated at home, awaiting your passionate kisses? Knowing how your classical k
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1335 1 0
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There are these unspoken zones,where everybody is corrupt,and everybody is a con artist.Half the people are frauds,and the other half are phonies.Each person trying to outwit the next person,while everybody else tries to pick each others' pocket.Simultaneously and…
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1335 1 0
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When I was a boy and just out of seminary school, I went to a Doors concert and heard Jim Morrison sing his song ‘Soft Parade’ – it changed my life.
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Other pathways are more satisfactory. They are more closely attuned to music of the other world. Even so, the heat eventually burns them up.
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As we follow the trail and things snap beneath our feet, I tell myself that the snapped things take pleasure, find purpose even, in the sounds they make with my soles.
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This was why the man on the bicycle was still in time to turn his head to her because he thought it was his sister who lived in California, because she wore the same jacket and in his inattentiveness almost ran over another cyclist.
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