There were only two students in the sculpture class: an 86 year-old Jewish woman and myself.

my father has a phobia of dentists./ he also once felt/ that if the house ran out of toilet paper/ he would lose his job.

the tall, thin ectomorph sat on the verdant, green grass as the unclothed naked woman on the Sunday-picnic blanket poured white cow’s milk into a vodka shot glass

Grey would rather be in the trees or down by the river. When a wind comes up, he grabs the wooly blanket from the hook in the barn and calls Phoebe. They stretch the blanket out between them and sail into the grassy meadow that slopes down the hill from t

My student assistant was a comely young woman. A freckle faced blonde. She was from Ohio.

The light, oblique and waning, filters through butcher’s paper to reveal a body suspended in death but never decomposing.

All else is unmoved/ and relentless in its indifference.

Her son was doubtless the biggest wanksta that ever went to Andrew Jackson in the whole crumby history of the school.

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.

No freebies. You want to read it, you have to read all of it.

shortest yet

He was an old cat

And a delicacy in the right regrets.

So this is what hate feels like. I glare at her, across the room standing there with him. Tall, blond, slender, perfect complexion, adorable smile, and bright eyes; and him and his lean athletic build, soft square jawline, charming smile, deep blue gree

you happen to me like motorcycle tricks