Somewhere a banjo, somewhere a hound.

If you work in a library, you work with book carts, so naturally you give them nicknames. You could call your faithful book cart Bumpy, Squeaky, Rusty or Tipsy. But surely you can do better than that! Here's…

The end will film itself/ in charred, eviscerated bodies

A little poem

I forget you. Upfront: that’s how this ends.

The planet will be fine without us as it was/ when the Permian extinction made the goo/ that made the Rockefellers wealthy.

‘Do you know that tables aren’t actually solid’ he said suddenly. ‘I mean there’s loads of space in the molecules that make up wood or whatever. The only reason we can’t push through them is because of the force.’ Nearby the Android called up his light

My job was take the falls, act the dope, finish at the wrong end of the slap stick for the blow off. I was Auguste, the fool; I drove the clown car.

He was a tenth grade / messiah, famous for acts of attrition.

They come to mind/ like ice flowers/ on the small panes

At the bar, she told me her name was Natasha, but she doesn’t look like one. She’s too thin and flighty for one thing. And all Natashas have a Russian accent and talk of the Motherland as if it were never cold and before it turned to borderlines and j

I thought to tell him I do not love raspberries, but blueberries, but he did not attend to the things I loved.

Foxes haunted her dreams. Islands full of foxes, truckloads of vixen.

Whole frogs are/ too difficult.

I heard today about your friend