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She pulled into the doorway. Uncertain where to spend the night. Certain there'd once been a place with food. Here. This place. She remembered. Curtains. Small tables. Coffee cups thick-handled and sturdy. Crockery.
Some words came back.
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"Look," he said. "Look at the knife. See how I hold it?"
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He lit a slim, brown cigarette and drew on it. "But have you heard the flugelhorn? I mean, have you heard a particularly adept flugelhorn?"
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The sky's hand's so big andso vast that it takes ourhuge sun at the end of day and squeezes it downto a perfect diamond--just like Supermanwith a lump of coal-- poof!--obliterates it. And it's gone.Next day it's seen floatingaround everywhere again,like an…
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She pined for the return of the translator who / became messianic in her eyes.
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There is a certain stage of sobriety among men who drink every night. In that stage, they are their best selves: they write novels, fix cars, care for their young. Then they change.
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Their mother never teaches them to wipe front to back or to brush their teeth before bed.
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sorry I didn't inform you
(missing cap)
about my trip to Spain,
(comma splice)
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He stands at the 53 bus stop, boy shadow dust-cloaked and fading, jangling her keys in his pocket, echoes of a journey cut short.
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I passed out one night while I was standing at the sink brushing my teeth.
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After this last death, I lose at musical chairs. Rough strangers shove me toward the carved door. Feeling fierce, I yell, “Don't push me!” House racked with noise, smells, rushing, I turn the…
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Sylvia used his computer to write two-page stories about women who killed themselves with blue pills because the shirts came back from the laundry unpressed and their husbands stayed out late with secretaries. Every story ended with the image it began.
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Was that the door slamming?
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We descended directly from Charlemagne
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Jonathan jumps up from his seat, knocking over his mug of coffee, when Mona tells him she thinks she is in labor.
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"My mother loses patience when I get sad," I said. "She tells me about the dog."
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I had time to kill. I got on the merry-go-round, letting it go slow, thinking of starting blocks, how I might push off them.
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Del and I watched my brother toe his way to the edge of the cottonwood branch that arched over the reservoir.
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The locals cut stone in quarries, built elevators at the Cummins plant in Columbus, or brewed shine back in the hills between Bean Blossom and Gnaw Bone.
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Come home, my love, and live.
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So there are these teenagers and they're all dying of cancer, or at least were dying of cancer, or might be dying of cancer, and then a couple of them fall in love and lose their virginity to each other, and these teens, they're all smart and charming and only a little…
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I wrote a fucking poem about you
And you’ll like it
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There were always mocking birds around my house.
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I dreamed that coffee grounds had spilled on my Buffet. There was another clarinet, a silver one, that belonged to a man not in the room, that was clean of debris.
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The night she left she claimed she fucked Bukowski.
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Shit, Marcie, I thought you were taking something. I mean you did say you were on the pill. I don’t want no screaming brat. Get rid of it.
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Assholes are assholes
who do asshole things.
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Dexter is a demon. He called me an over-accessorized hot spot yesterday evening and FYI: he didn’t even kiss me. I slammed the door and left my own apartment. I slept in my car.
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