Gringovitch sat on the big leather chair in Olivia’s suite. Before him on a coffee table were the nude sketches he’d made of her earlier that day.

Every spring, outside on the back deck, my mother and I have the same talk about how time flies, and she always waves her hand in the air as if swatting at a fly, but there's never anything there. She thinks the lilies will live all summer spread like a rainbow,…

temporary objects of desire

The boy in the elevator with round glasses, / who carried a newly-purchased broom, / was tall and burdened with clothes

Next morning the thought crosses my mind of snapping Mom’s neck, making sure she’s dead, and then running down to the sea to drown myself.

His eyes begin to glisten like hot green wax pooling around the wick of a pretty little candle.

Goodbye comes in stages. At first you recognize that you will “miss” someone when they are gone. Then you have to accept the fact that they are leaving. And finally accept the fact that they are gone; and not particularly in that order. If only it

In the tumbled-down now there's too much material, culled from pretty boys that don't notice me and tattooed ones that do, and I'm certain there's at least one dreamer soaking eyes into me who knows all the twisted lyrics invoking pretty little horses.

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.

This time is different. The dream doesn’t continue with endless walking.

Words reach out of my mind for paradise. And come back with rocks.

Speaking in tongues untranslatable, they move in experimental spacesuits, uneasy in the other's gravity. (To say nothing of the difficulty of dancing.)

the ones that have seen the other seasons, let them set up the track

I tell people that we leave out food for the creatures to appease the skunk gods.

...he had that same grin, better than a racy French picture.