One night of nothing
When the languorous motion of bats and owls overthrows the scorching August air
making a party only takes three
One night of nothing
heavy on an empty
Dan disowned my sister and me via email a year ago
for M
i.
In the beginning there was only the girl
and the ocean. Someone was telling a story;
in the story a girl’s friend died, an accident,
so she walked into the sea, breathed
In this dappled language, like a woods painted by Neil Welliver, in and out of our attention, animals wander in the camouflage. They are highlighted by our attention: each stands in a yellow bar of
I grew up in the predominantly all-white neighborhood of Warwick, Rhode Island; I was one of only two Black kids in my elementary, junior high, and high schools. I dressed well, presented myself well, got good grades.
My friends and I would see you on the streets and say you looked like a villain. Slicked back black hair, tall and thin, distrusting gaze, but handsome. All sinister swagger.
The seafood restaurant in my dreams closed down last night.
Many days I realize my dreams are fiction half way through.
Margot and I had humped once, too, when I stopped by and Andrea wasn’t home.
its stagnant swollen limbs...
1985: the year of “high-risk” and Careless Whispers. His appearance was brief —lasting all of ten second— but there he was, following an interview between Debbie Harry and Nick Rhodes on the Palladium.
When I heard the name, I was sure it held a deeper meaning. No, she said, laughing... She explained that the knot combines the features of a reef knot, a thief knot, and a granny knot. It’s a portmanteau, not a metaphor. Grief has no meaning, she said.
You turn to face me, apologize for the mountain, for not drinking enough water, for not letting me turn back to make sure you were safe at a lower elevation. For not realizing what this would do to me.
"Strange," "Rare Books," "New Suit," and "The Killer"
in this one you’re a six foot / two hundred pound prize
Why did Train A leave while Train B was still getting ready?
Last Christmas, you asked for my latest address and sent a postcard all the way from Paris. There was a close-up shot of Hemingway’s face on the front. On the back, you wrote: “You deserve all the good in the world.” I took a picture of it but never sent anything back.
As Yoda sat on a tree stump, perfectly force-carved to complement his bony exterior and knobby joints, he realized that it had been five days in a row now that he had sat on this tree stump.
Most people prefer the Vulcan statue...
I like sex in fiction to be full of ambivalence—undeniable lust mixed with doubt or disgust. I have done things with lovers I don’t want to tell anyone.
