Spilled milk it is --lactate of common desire;water under the bridge, slow-moving, white. So this is what we feed on: the past and present here for the licking.Sweat is water too,for the hungry, and any past will do. Parched mouths kiss just as well as…

My mother was a bluebird Who flew from tree to tree My father was a pilot Who flew right over me Her soul is still living There upon my tree My dad’s evaporated Right in front of me My brother’s soul has wandered Far away I see I

I hold down the control-alt-delete keys simultaneously and the screen goes blank, sending Camus into a paroxysm of fear; for a guy who wrote an essay on facing down suicide, he’s kind of jumpy.

Are all my words lonely, or nearly departed; decapitated; Visible only from the ankles down, nonchalant? I Get bored. All my words are not paying Strict attention to the television. I get dysfunctional. My words, coincidental though they…

Hanna was so close to being one of those commercial kids. I mean, the commercial kids all kind of look like her anyway. They’re homecoming queen pretty, and have these dumb smiles like they know they’ll never be sad or poor.

Fire.Orange.Fire.There were orange and red fires but for the most part they were orange.Before that, I was just standing there in the dark looking at the streetlights and then past them. I was gonna try to stare into infinity and had high hopes. Due to much cloud cover,…

I thought drowning you was the answer. I had barely opened my eyes as I leaned over the sink to brush my teeth, and you were poised near the drain, a furry brown spider, and the largest one I had ever seen up close. I was afraid to smash you, so I flooded you with…

Your begging hands are hacking me up again like garden claws that know not the difference between a delicate solar powered flower and a tightening choke of killing weeds.It's not like it's even mine to keep-- like a legal document I'd…

"The editors at Travel & Leisure are more interested in perks from advertisers than the survival of the human race.”

You can ask so many questions Of what’s it all about You can empty out the closets And roll the mothballs out But no one has the answers It’s all a mystery There’s a bigger picture But it’s really hard to see

She was a rich widow who lived down the street.

She had no eyes that I could see. Just a pair of lips; they looked soft

I saw an older writer in a slouched-down Fedora, gray beard and long scraggly gray ponytail, who had empty chairs pulled up all around him, at the Loser Café, maybe for his imaginary friends, or maybe those who were already gone.

Adrienne found her calling in Africa feeding poor children or whatever the fuck you do when you're in the Peace Corps.

as you are, there's a big floating arm that separates both of us from each other. Widening, like a river, it touches us together often, but still keeps us drifting apart. The banks of your new life have different weeds and flowers…