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There are two kinds of stupid in the world of smoking. The first kind includes anyone who smokes – knowing well that it is likely to cause terrible pain at a later point in their lives. The second kind includes the people who tell the first kind that sm
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the moon tops the monolith
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After my vasectomy, I got a T-shirt with a picture of an orange on it. It said "All Juice, No Seeds."
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If he doesn't bite, I'm out of here.
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Their bodies, ripe uncovered flesh, had begun to erode, the edges of their limbs and cores bitten, taken by the wind in small pieces, flaking and tearing, some parts sliding, falling away.
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Q: “How many husbands have you had, Mrs. Guggenheim?”
A: “D’you mean my own, or other people’s?”
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The juice that stays on my neck when you tip me back, catching me in an alleyway, holding me upright as the oranges tumble and strike the backs of my knees. You cup your strong-smelling, sticky-soft fingers around my ear and say let's blow this city.
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Calm down, I wouldn’t classify this as a sex dungeon.
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I've got an appointment to see my shrink next Wednesday. She's pretty sharp. Not bad looking, either.
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I start with a morsel of truth, then hide it with lies...
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...you lick you ice cream, little pink tongue like a cat's, flick, flick... lick fast, girl, the heat's gonna melt it...
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You worry that the mullahs suspect us, but that cannot be. We never touch in public. You weep and I shake when a neighbor knocks on the door.
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Falling//
is something that comes quite naturally/
to puffed up things. Like the soufflé
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looked briefly – glanced
shouted loudly – yelled
fell down – fell
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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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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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