all these changes in my life were made without my consent

I wanted you to count on me—if not as a lover, then at least as an object for your using.

Normalcy has no moment to collapse because it is absent from the start.

Blood dots my eyelids as the

pewter waves drag you under.

Sometimes he’ll cum on my face, and I’ll have to hear about it in one of his poems.

We only know how to give
ourselves to each other when
we're anyone other than ourselves

My manhood could now hinge on giving her rides.

Your wrist veins distinct next to your wedding band.

I was in an S &M relationship with myself.

It isn't until you pass under a lamp post or are mercifully illuminated by the brakelights of a car that you spring back to life.

This place looks haunted as shit.

You touch everything you see. You want everything you touch.

Dream Dust

This place is famous for shits and giggles. A real crapshoot throwing the dog ball. You never know where you land. Good luck, they say, if it splats you. Don’t open yr mouth. You’ll

Picture me, splayed on the bed on top of Liz. I’m wearing a pink thong, she’s still in her jeans. She spanks me; I deserve it. She spanks me again. My breath flees my lungs, a flock of geese taking

It was finally my turn around Christmas time. Sure, I was just one more cock in an endless line, sneaking up to that apartment, but I was not above free pussy.

Uncle Dale says, “We’re lucky that none of us can fly.”

He was only Jack. Never daddy.

We found ourselves in Kohl’s a few months later. I was home for the holidays, and Mom and I were standing in the women’s department, staring at shelves of bargain business casual.

The human race was absurd and overwrought. Men were feeble-minded narcissists and women, acoustic blowhorns with an endless flurry of wind.

your uncle has a whiteboard on his wall and on it it says TO DO: TELL TERRY YOU LOVE HER. he wrote that you don’t know how many years ago. terry was his girlfriend but she’s dead now

Against cloudless skies, any of the available disorders are at your disposal.

I swore off intimacy for a long time and tried to replicate the feeling with a heating pad, a body pillow, and a vibrator but ended up most nights just crying in bed with a bottle of vodka.

I said to Martin Amis once, told him Augie March is a jazz beat novel and he said his son reckons that 

I felt like a fool in the rain as I sat under the shower head.

Now she wore a menacing permutation of the cheerful, customer-service smile he had seen her display earlier.

Molly, in its three hundred and twelve pages, transcends time and space, life and death.