To be naked on the beach after a storm is something special—the salt and the petrichor and the hum of being unsettled that maybe the torrential rains caused damage, that maybe there were nearby ships that will never make it to harbor.
My Magic cards were the coolest thing about me.
Stone had two modes of handwriting: one a gnarly cursive he used to talk to himself and the other block capitals, more easily legible. On a scrap of torn paper in a crate of Damascus Gate research material is a draft of a self-mocking doggerel poem...
Violet and I sit in her bed a while and talk. She shows me how to unhook and snake a bra through a sleeve.
I could not imagine the dark well of her grief. I wanted to pretend it had nothing to do with me. But I felt compelled to bear witness somehow.
“When Zac started writing the poems, I didn’t think it would get to this.”
so long to call back
the first time the phone
rang i was beneath a
bridge when you rang
again the roar of cars and
cargo overhead made it too
loud to hear you sense of
sea partially
Two thousand nine is the centennial year of Malcolm Lowry, the British novelist and poet, whose extraordinary novel Under the Volcano appeared in 1947. Lowry’s first version of it was a loosely constructed story about Britons who witness a violent crime in Mexico.
If Clubber Lang just chilled out, he would’ve been in Rocky’s corner, too.
“Foresee this, I did not,” Yoda commiserated. But he knew what he had to do. He just didn’t know if he could do it.
People are always saying...
Marlon, breath puffing out in the cool morning air, says to no one that if the students cry, he will cry too. This isn’t a process you want to see again through new eyes.
Here come the ones who chose / the second option...
You would have believed on the screen was where my attention stayed.
Recently, I told my mother that I used to climb out of the bathroom window in the upstairs and crawl out onto the chimney ledge, where one slip of the ankle, knee, wrist, and I would have fallen three stories onto cement. Perhaps it began as another peace offering—I was trying to amuse her.
There was no way you could have a pair of Nikes and get clowned.
There was a yearning in me for her soft whiteness, which went powdery pink in her most private of places.
I want to be remembered like this: taut...
Under what circumstances do we find ourselves here?
