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.

for Tracy ThornYou don't need a song about fixed stars, you needa reason to be glad stars are here. Themoon's always been around, but not always like the friend you want,until now. Don't throw it all away becauseyou are too sad to care. You've come into your own. Allthings…

Hours later, when I was on the phone trying to explain in broken Greek that I didn't have the money to pay damages, I started to retrace my steps from that souvenir shop I reduced to dust.

It's always dark when Cal and I arrive. We park under the bright sodium lamps, closest to the doors. The lights will probably be off by the time we return, unless the sensors miscue in the uncertain light of early morning. When that happens, the lights…

The woman was dancing, holding her bottle in the air as she slowly turned around, blocking the way to the exit. “I asked Miss Pansy Blossom if she would wing a reel,” she sang.

Crows cawed, kvetched.

They wait for me every morningthese two furry four legged catswhen they hear my car,their eyes open wide and they nuzzle each otherin anticipationof the food I bring them

With the sudden thrust// of April green, we can forget/ our drought continues.

But if He makes you happy, stands/ as bulwark against the vast, indifferent/ and deadly universe, then cling to Him

It is wonderful to talk to Mick Jagger in his hotel room. He is absolutely charming, and the women filling the room seem as natural as the sound of rain or the play of sunlight.

I bow my head and shed the antlers of past lives I no longer butt heads with the universe but I miss my curse and can’t do worse I throw myself in reverse and rehearse the early scenes of science and my full meat diet that sent

It renders the inner ears inoperative-/ Music that once reverberated inside 
/ the brain-hut concert hall squeaks

When were you flash frozen?

I believe in scouring the sea with spears

“Good to see you, old man,” Greg said. He was like that, an investment banker, a latter-day Tom Buchanan without the polo ponies, self-consciously fusty.