The custard of eternity is scooped into the quantum cone of knowledge and drips out the bottom one lifetime at a time.

I murdered my inner child/ at 7 and neither denied/ nor confessed the act until now.

This is the story of the man whose wife lived in his neck. Every morning, he would turn to her and say, "Hello, Sweetheart. How was your night?" and she would answer, Brilliant! What else?

isn't so hard to imagine if you can just squint through the minutes like a good McGoo, slog through the headline happy seasons and sleep at it most of the day. It only hurts real bad whenever you try to carry off a roaring laughter…

Let me say these words now

He didn't hide it. He told her he was a mortician when he called. He had responded to her ad in the Lonely Hearts section of the newspaper.

He had coal black hair the day he died. He claimed to be part French, no doubt the offspring of a Swedish girl and a French soldier, although Ole did not mention this.

Feminine, safe, though disembodied,/ she shapes your life in ways/ your mother never could.

Put sunscreen on your / bones.

The Cheshire grinning/ moon cups itself to capture/ Venus should she fall.

.....

"...they ran shirtless like pagans under southern stars."

I loved to visit my grandparents when I was a kid.

I’ve forgiven my mother; she didn’t know what she was doing. She heard voices, had visions. She imagined herself to be a prophet named Helen when her real name was Marge. When she learned she was pregnant with me she scored some Thalidomide from my gr

I don't want / to write about the body indulged, desires / denied, tortures invented, pleasures innate