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Popular wisdom would have it that heroin addicts are some kind of cross between vampire menace and low-rent cartoon.
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My first winter in Massachusetts feels medieval: cold, dark, and endless.
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Time is a form of sandwich. Each component of the sandwich is nestled between night and day, which enclose it like slices of bread. There are minutes, hours, and seconds. Seconds are tiny, like sesame seeds. Minutes are a little larger. Think of them as p
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I could have a minor stroke.
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I'm looking for the perfect/passage, a safe, sound/jettison to now.
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September 21, 2009 Dear Diary, She learned English by doing crosswords, my mom. I'm sure she picked up a few things from the people around her as well, but yeah, always doing crosswords. When I lived too far away to visit regularly, I bought a Scrabble…
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The woman wrings her hands again and again, reaching up to place one under her chin, then to her cheek as though there is some pending trepidation no one else can see...
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That morning in the driving rain a sequence of automobiles appeared on the streets in the region with headlights in the form of television monitors
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“You're right by the mall, the cultural district, and just a few minutes from downtown,” the realtor smiled. “And it's on a bus line?” the wife asked. “Yes it…
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Where the Story LiesEverybody wants to knowwhere the story lies. Does itlie in childhood? Does it liein old age? Does it lie in anangry outburst or a stingingrebuke? Does it lie in a momentof compassion or in the recognitionof calloused selfishness? Bruisedlove or…
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Tom wasn’t crying.
A few snowflakes, the first of the season, flittered down and landed on Elizabeth’s new headstone, christening it. Tom didn’t have his topcoat, and he never buttoned his suit. He tried not to shiver. Lynn lifted her face from Tom’s c
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Trenches coated with man-gruel laced the earth.
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“This isn’t fair!” I rail to my late wife. “It’s all right for you, why not me?” She never answers me directly. Not in whispers, or with knocks, or even dreams.
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One Private View, four couples, not all of whom are adulterous.
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The coach told the player, number 21, to stand in front of the net in order to distract the opposing team's goaltender and to block the view, to 'screen' him as it were. 21 did so, and did it well. There were defensemen that gave him much trouble by hitting his legs and…
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Left by a melting snowbank: Cup lids, pine needles, a cairn of dog shit, And the grey soggy shape Of an eyeless winter bird. His breast is an old accordion Gone to rot in an old…
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Roanne awoke on the livingroom couch with the usual willies dancing in stomp time inside her. She blinked, looked around. The room was a mess, with clothes strewn hither and yon on the floor and the chairs and TV. On the walls, rock stars,…
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his eyes see blood as circumstance.
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VIII. Towards Affinities, Beyond My love, since I saw you last, since before we reached the chamber, I cannot count the quasars which have passed, but there still gleams Time, Like a memory of a lost event unwitnessed, and this illusion Carried…
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Captain Nemo never died./
He cruises all the seven seas/
below the waves in Nautilus 2,
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I hope my blonde down still beats in your heart, and the black crescent curved under, you will remember, and I would move toward your window where my own heart lay in a dish, with the thick valley lifting.
Remember, I crossed and uncrossed my legs f
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In dreams begin responsibilities--Yeats I'm writing this story to tell you about a mistake, despite the fact that you might find it boring or might consider my writing style onerous or overeager. I begin with…
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Once upon a mind-flight
Leary with the tripping became weary
Of the psychedelic travel
Felt the universe unravel
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The way I figure it, mom wasn't worth a shit. I'd cry when she hit me but she'd just keep pounding. When I was seven, she burned a hole in my back. It happened one day at the fair. We were walking around. She didn't have any money so all we could do was walk. I had…
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But if He makes you happy, stands/
as bulwark against the vast, indifferent/
and deadly universe, then cling to Him
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they could be barefoot bastard children
for somebody else to clothe
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Who better to know the wiles of the fox than the vixen herself?
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