It's good to be home. It's good to be home. It's very good to be home

1. There is a crowd of people walking to a field and since there are over forty of them, the conversations become divided and then subdivided in accordance w/natural rhythms. I follow behind. It is a football game. Makeshift. Twenty aside roughly. Almost every…

I remember this shot taken of you in a bright blue summer dress, with your arms spread out, leaning against a wood fence near the beach, or by Lincoln Park maybe, your thin body leaning back and long blonde hair down bare arms. Other men will remember h

The faint stars began to twinkle in the orange and purple sky and the clouds turned to watercolor and the window became a painting.

Are there places that words cannot go? Consider words going where they were never intended to go.

A couple, an unlikely match, came together for a brief interlude of time. It was marked, almost a kind of bar code; beginning, middle and almost end. Almost end was not "the" end because it was seemingly fated that they continue the journey through life, if not together, at…

I can't show you the territory- not quite yet, not how I see it. But I do have a map, a glorious and vain construction. It gives you a glimpse, a sight. I wish you could see it all.

as if someone had spilled a bag of perfect diamonds on the world.

Eugene O'Neill is remembered as a troubled, brooding artist, but he had grown up in the theatre and was a hustler for the business of himself as well.

I was a reasonable two year old. I truly believe this to be the case. My memories are somewhat vague I will confess. My perception may be tainted by time and my spongy, misshapen Id, but everything I know matches with everything I have been told and it leads me to this…I…

what happens to literature's characters when their readers traverse the veil?

Part I I look down at the milk soaked, fabricated, Bits of synthetic nutrition and The feeling comes over me. I race down the highway in my gas guzzling, Smog belching, status symbol and still The feeling overtakes me. I look at my precious offspring, I see…

Two girls in vests hogtied his ankles and wrists with a severed lamp cord and barbed wire, spun him dizzy around the room.

I don’t like telling stories. I’m far too honest and give far too many things away.

Was it only for the vast dance of the darling soul, that you were born? Not to give up your genetics? Made for the use of the future, were you? I should have known. I heard the wind that swirled within you, even then, when we were so young. You were