I saw Candy the next time I went out. And the time after that. And the time after that.
I suppose all sports officials are gods of a sort...
My friends lived for bottle rockets and Boy Scout merit badges; I, however, lived for called third strikes.
That’s what your parents say when they come in with their Santa suits. But it’s not Saturday. It’s Tuesday. It’s time to go to school.
Canvas after canvas I see my life in scenes the artist cannot know.
I fear being buried alive, but I insist on being buried when I'm dead.
We agreed to meet in a bar known as the ‘anus of the city.’ It had terrible lighting which obscured its ugly regulars. The regulars had heads like onions with names like Fred, Harry, Deborah, Henrietta. Years of drinking had withered their necks to the size of cocktail sticks and I didn’t pity them because I liked hating them.
Self-guided tour: Exhibit #9 from the National Museum of Broken Marriages
A medium says to channel the late wife through beloved objects. I press my ear to a mug, a journal, my husband’s chest.
Most of the time, I am skeptical of the notion that a writer can find his or her voice. I warn my first-year students against believing the maxim because, to me, it presupposes that every writer
I've been socialized to be alive / the quiet death of women eating salad
Dad’s side are all boring fucks. Mom’s side, god—all my mom’s brothers thought they were the outlaw rebel cowboys of New Jersey. Wild ones. Alcoholics. They were fun, while they lasted. All those men
We lie here together, gold in charred hands, / pulling the ash from each other’s hair.
As always, feel I’ve mentioned this elsewhere—But here’s how deep I’d get into something without being able to have it make sense.
This is the most difficult sermon, / The one where the disciples / Burn the hamburger buns and / Christ nearly misses his train.
I grow our loneliness in my mouth, feed you— / sweet and bleak— under a halo of buzzing stars.
An interview with Anna Noyes
First, he ARRIVED – like the swans at Capistrano, or aliens in the desert, or, more likely, a flaming dessert.
“Who is that?” my friend Noelle said, poking me in the ribs; her inflection, a
