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“Shane, will you turn off the lights?” Jean asked. “Film really is much better with the correct lighting.” “I believe you,” Shane said while he switched off the lights, blanketing the room in complete darkness. The large TV on the…
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115874
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The Judge waited for the perfect wave.
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106755
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This was not the bar that the artist usually frequented.
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157168
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I live near a small village by the sea. A cobble stone road runs past twenty or so houses, then turns towards the water. From my own house, I can see the small harbor and the boat barn. In winter, the place is deserted.
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1862014
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I visited you later that month, the tubes and lights and charts chronicling your descent. I held your hand in the brightness of that room, amazed by the translucence of your papery skin and the isobaric schema carrying blood here and there.
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11342312
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We know them just enough/
to recognize them when we find them.
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2700
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I end our relationship when he calls my favorite Chagall “trite.” Anyone who glues thread to canvas and calls it “string painting,” has no right to use that word.
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17175
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Love escapes into primary nouns . . .
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44355
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Steve Kramer was a brilliant young artist on the scene in New York in the 70s when I was starting out as a writer. He built little electronic dioramas displaying stuffed rats in various bizarre settings. Flip the switch and they would get fried in a little rat-sized…
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