“Why don’t you dump Mr. Fitness here and give one of us a chance?” a mouse says. “I wouldn’t fuck you for practice,” she says sharply.

...Or perhaps it has; It depends which way you look at it. Perhaps the reader may cite laziness As my reason for not titling this Any other than I would have done As now, with such a title As it has, since for some reason I never…

Hi fellow writersThis is a proposed start of novel.Protagonist is Flor "the urchin"her grandfather, whom she hated when he was alive (and vice versa) is seeing her life from the void, he has died.Please offer any feedback or thoughts you may have, all are appreciated.Here…

In the evening when the sun sinks low and the baths gets drawna tall glass of milk sits slowly spoiling and sweating on the cracked white window sill. And the kids walk across the grass.The birds send out their last farewell notes They sail on the infinite breath of…

"Ben! Ben!" yelled Monique. "Did you hear me?"

I remember one of my old high school intellectual friends introduced me to what he called a real wild blond girl named Sally or Marnie or something that summer of 1964. She was tall and blond and thin and looked like a model. Boys were usually afraid to

(it) looks out at the world from behind a film (it) does not participate (it) is slow to love . . . There is the image And they say they are in the world . . . Blood does not shake their hearts They lie and take your s

In fact we were all drinking together in banquet halls (on banquet ships) with an epic poet who invented things, made things up, while dying in thorough dissipation. Washed to shore, our souls with our lives, our shadows. And storms swept them away

Everything sensed is a drop of experience in the cosmos. Writing brings on the rain.

It has been more than three decades since I returned to work from a noon union meeting to find myself, along with about twenty others, locked out of the printing plant where we worked.

“Okay, so I'm lying naked in this coffin with my big dick out,” George W. Bush says. “Yes!” …

Dawn is spreading its pink and blue colours over the morning. Pleasant hues, with children playing and birds chattering. A light morning, without commitments, without waves, open to promises. Mornings don't speak our language and don't make the same gestures. They speak a…

When Alex says “sorry” in that barely disguised Canadian accent, we call him an asshole.

Salome said she wanted the head of John the Baptist on a platter, adding the latter touch of finery for reasons all her own.

These frail things, swimming to shore, heads barely above the foam.