I think theorems and hypotheses but all that comes out is punching and smashing frustrated hate flows where I'd prefer to know love.

pluck me from the charred grate

Who are not here.

His toenails were so long they curled under and into the black leathery pads of his feet. They lightly clacked on our linoleum, tap shoes made of thick petrified roots. He didn't seem to mind.

...I told Uncle Lou I thought it (trans-gendering) looked like a thoughtful way of occupying the world. It was a personal triumph, for some individuals, over the destructive affects of denial. Besides, it hurt no one, and it didn’t destroy property. I alw

I wriggled in the bed and felt the sheets soaked with perspiration. My arms were lined with tape and tubing, needles pressed in veins. I reached for the cloth again and again, and every time they stopped me. The hands that came were cold and hard, urgent

Mesmerizing, the night’s queer colors, the darkness given depth by the earth’s crystalline sheen, by a sky choked with a million fleeting prisms. In the woods surrounding the house another branch snapped, a gunshot loud crack. The echo lingered, cap

Words are not like bricks. The neighborhood flowers from within the rituals that enframe the drinking of a macchiato in a café. Now it hovers over the page.

flash read. have fun *cheers*

A great doubt had shut out the light inside us, but each of us called for our lover at the end, and she was generous. Carrying us along inside her over vast distances, chilling our soul with sudden terrible flashes of light.

At night, instead of sleep, there were new and secret pleasures. Half-awake lessons in dexterity, in the limber material of human life.

One sunny day after Christmas Eldon went ice fishing with Grandma and Grandpa at Haymarsh. He was not fishing for Ice Fish but for regular fish who swam under the ice. Craig was there too. Craig was wearing more pairs of socks than anyone. He was wearing 3…

I am standing in my neighbor’s back yard in my underwear, and my trash can is clean.

It's eerie. There are no birds. My friend and I take our morning walk in a bubble of silence.

Rothko explored horizons,/ blurring figure and ground/ by omitting the figure.