There were tears. When I’m writing about the past, I’m aiming to come to a place where I can feel or understand something that I’ve previously never been able to resolve. Or feel something other than anger, because anger is never just anger.

The summer you learned who was dealing what. You were applying to programs, your pointillism, neat in ink, when a wind disappeared your drawing.

I am a woman of discipline, which is to say: I don’t act at random. But I once slept with a mindreader on a whim.

the sky is gray and you will not stop talking
about balance
this focus has become your baby
for at least the past three days
last week it was tarot cards 
and a techno

Amanda, I thought... I, I don't understand. You said this was over.

Why is there shattered glass?

It's from a light bulb.

All Roger Moore wants is a drink. He’s had a rough couple of days. He’s Bond—James Bond—but nobody seems to believe him. He’s not in the mood for a martini, doesn’t care to micromanage the

I’m to blame for every fake suicide this week. If anyone knocks at the door I shout the addresses of shut-ins until I hear footsteps. If the knocking continues I take my gun and start shooting through the walls.

All I wanted was the haze of a worn gown / of sleep after the scrape of that / honey-sipped night.

Hopefully, I’ve ingested enough synthetic flavor to stop my heart real early. Or to maintain tinnitus for the length of a harassing phone call. If not, the only responsibility of the adult is to be their own Kevorkian.

All summer the future had been coming for us like a thunderstorm at which turkeys look up and drown in the rain.

Most nights he wakes to use the bathroom and in so doing wakes the dog, which in turn figures it might as well do the same.

He was like, "Everyone knows what racoons like to do."

What an asshole.

I hadn’t had any alcohol to drink in forty-two days.
I had told myself I wouldn’t drink for thirty but once you stop doing something it’s hard to start doing it again.

I agree to an extended death

I am yelling out the windows

of this speeding automobile

I had runoff all over. I hadn’t escaped the heartland.

Then the world boned its youth one worse. Even if you weren’t participating, they made not giving a fuck popular. 

I do not remember this, cannot call up the image. 

This has to stop— / you're a year dead. I shatter the mirror // with a glare, pace the hall carpet, / but others arrive by dawn, agitated // by thuribles, syllables scattered from / pulpits, daughters buttoned into pastel.

Lydia! What the heck is the hold up? How long does it take to throw a rope over a branch?

I’d pony up the midnight sun for a pulled pork sandwich.

We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball

In 2011, while addicted to heroin, I briefly delivered pizza for Zeppe's, a chain restaurant in rural Northeast Ohio. 

We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball

On the night during which the events of this essay took place—August 8th, 2003—the San Francisco Giants beat the Philadelphia Phillies 9-1. Barry Bonds hit a home run, yes, his 648th...

We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball