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“The wound is the place where the light enters you…”- JALAL AD-DIN RUMIFollowing my lithium poisoning by my doctor, I went into a delirium, a vortex of darkness of losing myself sucked into a swirling black hole of space, no language, no way to communicate,…
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In that mix of sports and religion, TV was what there was of virtue. I thought bars were nicer.
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you think it knows about getting us as far as wehave, to the here we are now boathouse where we can stop holding onto our worldweary chains so much. How else can I slap this thing into a new clay pot for you? All those things that are…
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The man who makes the noose
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Max leads the parade up the hill. He is sawing on his violin, wearing nothing but a raincoat.
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She hardly twitches. Her face regards the stars. If her body is an object, it is the isthmus before global warming.
They want to find the source of the glacier in her eyes that is always melting. Maybe they like a woman who cries.
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Mabel constructed the quintessential boundary. She carefully boiled down her pots and pans, her jewelry, her copper kettle, and the foils from forty six bottles of white pear cider into a silky metallic stew. Mable smeared the mixture onto a burlap…
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I spend my time sitting on the back step—poison oak reddening my arm—under the eaves, waiting to escape.
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His birthday buddy was like a wife to him: they were born a day apart.
This was coordinated, he believe, in the womb. Well, to be more accurate, wombs. She was due two weeks earlier but waited; he two weeks later but cut his womb-time (as the kids call i
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I hate math. I hate everything about it.
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One week until the exhibition and only half the paintings were done. This was how Axel worked best, with a gun to his head.
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Tendering these stalks, making the pie, heralds me a holder of apron strings...
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Women with tremulous breasts. Going down the swimming pool drain.
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chet baker shades my eyes
rippling through the cool water
sometimes we feed the fish
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Sand underfoot.It's raining I say …
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She sets the muffins aside, opens herself, nymph-like, mouth spread and gritty. She pulls the dirty edge of his gray t-shirt up so to show herself to him, spreads herself across the mattress like thin flesh oil over too much canvas....
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Sitting together at Starbucks, we composed a long love letter which we've been mailing back and forth to each other, signing our name upon each receipt and returning it for the last nine months and it has grown to eighty seven pages, barely fitting in a shoe box.
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La Petite Ange had lived all her life in Paris under the strange architectural twists of Notre Dame. She had been a Bluebell girl once, kicking her surprisingly long legs into the air to the delight of plumbers and Prince du…
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I learned to love what we had: the long, bright days, the water all around us, and even their slithery bodies, which somehow never dried under the pounding sun.
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Real men don’t screw around in Canada, he confided to the strawberry blonde sitting beside him at the Houston bar. He’d bought her a couple of beers, and her body language said she was interested.
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He'd tend the door himself in high lace up boots, orange rhinestone hot pants, a tight black t-shirt, and black boa with orange swirl.
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In my innocence and young mind, I thought that kiss would mean that someday we would get married
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I was always more comfortable with the ponies than you were / more comfortable with betting windows and two-dollar bills than you were
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The contrast can be summed up in a sip.
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My little friend is no bigger than a minute. An even five feet tall, if that.
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Matilda went wild at sixty-five. Legs left unshaven for the first time in fifty years, hair still and proud, knotted with forgetting. She’d roam the streets at night, a traveler without design. Matilda was a gardener of sorts, digging up all previous assu
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"What's it like?"
Like everything else. We all do it, so how bad could it be?
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