2163 3 1
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In every word there is both music and history. Music from the way sounds come into union with each other, and history in how they get there. There is form too, sure, but I am not a calligrapher. I'm a scribbler if anything. And so my sentences look mo
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216232
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But Jana insisted to see this miracle, this antidote for the mundanity of existence.
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216243
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First it makes me think about the time I held a live, albeit tranquilized, juvenile gator at a zoo in Florida when I was twelve. (Somewhere these's a photograph, no doubt, of me looking terrified and a gator looking asleep.)
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21622018
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Can you see me dying? 'Not quite',
Said Mummy, 'because it happens
Very slowly all the time.
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21621310
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I try to envision long-haired men riding horses across a vast expanse, their faces blank as those of my students.
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21622110
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He grew red-faced at her quiet words, "I'm pregnant."
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216154
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.... The sun tears through the windshield as if it were an six-foot wide magnifying glass and for a moment it feels to them both as if they are in a manipulated universe of fire and ice, storm and heaven, as it does when the skies crack and spread open a
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216174
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Katie loved butterflies. Katie loved daisies. Mainly, Katie loved presents.
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216000
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I’m twenty eight years old, and I am dying.
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21591612
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The day after falling in love,
I became unmoored from everything familiar.
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215964
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Sophie is a cat. I tell you this upfront so as not to get you all wound up about moral angst, Nazi's or a mother's love.
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2159103
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They slept in the same bed but that was all they had in common. He, an editor, had shelves filled with literary works and she, his wife of many years and never much of a reader, had strewn their penthouse apartment with Madeline children’s books.
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215950
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In a hot splattering we were born
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2158177
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Since the divorce had gone final, the matter settled once and for all, he’d taken to a masochistic bingo of sorts.
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215821
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The dump smelled of the chaos of creation, of rusting metal and burned glass, chemicals and rancid rainwater, wet cardboard and rotting wood, paint slaking off clapboards and drums.
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215821
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If the photographs made sounds, they would rumble like static from an impending thunderstorm, pressed between the pages of a yellowing dictionary. Compressed sound, searching for the proper words.
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215800
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While Erik rubs my back, I fall asleep. I'm not lying on my bed in Florida - I'm face down on the pavement outside Brooklyn Pharmacy. And it's not Erik's hand smoothing oil of cassis into my skin, but that Officer Green's meaty one gripping me . . .
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2158113
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That summer crawled with them, insects of every denomination: cicadas caught by the cat, wingless, came to rest in the roots of the garden we planted; sudden swarms of dragonflies...
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215721
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He had no idea about the first three cards - what he would call the flop - which looked dubious and full of danger.
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215775
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That sort of says it all, doesn’t it?
The skirmish for truth must be fought early in the morning.
Lies happen later in the day.
Big lies occur in the night.
And this belongs directly on the surface of time as well:
Alleged shoplifter arrested
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2156149
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for the rush of longing
and brush with flight
that is her imagination
will surely lift her above the traffic
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215631
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"I would physically — not metaphorically, mind you — make love to that avocado..."
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2156176
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Every time I read a great line by another writer, I feel fear.
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2156117
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Your specific request that I never submit to you again; ever, is cause for puzzlement, yet strangely motivating.
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215683
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Julie studied her brush, plucking a strand of hair from it. She looked up and smiled. "My mother thought you were a peeper."
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215601
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Luther Mishmash stood numbly in the yard, dumbly staring at the soiled pair of underpants flapping lazily in the breeze on the wash line. Grandpa had wet himself again. Tomorrow, at school, he knew he’d hear about it. Luther wasn’t sure which was more
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21561613
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This is self-reflection or self-reflexive writing. Candor but not verse. That is what I write: not-verse. On occasion I write a poem though rarely an occasional poem. Instead of calling it non-fiction we could call it non-verse.
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2155157
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I could call him. And be done with this waiting but I refused. I wanted him to not forget me first. To bring himself to remember me first before I'd give him the pleasure of my company.
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215562
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I pasted a sample paragraph of my writing on the website 'Who do you write like?'.
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215541
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The boys finished their laps and returned to the center of the gym, Hamid shuffling up last, as usual. Amid the T-shirts and shorts, he wore faded blue slacks and a grubby, long sleeved dress shirt. He always dressed that way, even in gym class, as though
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