She rocks quickly from side to side, proud, lifting herself higher.
They’d been together an hour, but they were an easy threesome.
I am left with little Rome for error. I choose wrong, then I revise.
I was a Ronald Reagan in a generation of Woody Harrelsons.
The engineers seemed ripe for mockery, some more than others.
Hear the voice of life telling you something from the inside out.
She was laughing. Something animal in me was sparked, and I chased her.
Who are we? Without one another, who will we be?
I’ve sinned. Cannot be saved. He was a child. Surely he went to heaven.
I hear my brother’s wife whisper, It’s her again. Let the machine get it.
If you didn’t listen you would think it was a cry for help or sympathy.
The child at the rummage sale— more souvenirs than memories.
The hound, the leash, the fence, the hens. So many of them.
Jack picked me up in a car with a greasy-potato sex smell.
We know that we were lied to, the disaster was worse than we feared.
You can stand on the edge and tremble with fear or risk your life.
If everyone’s lost on the roads, you might as well fly. Enjoy your life.
The first time we love, how tight we hang on to keep from drowning.
Snug in the spell of a cradle rocking, I remember the first time I floated.
Don’t tell him you’re a virgin, says Peggy. You’ll freak him out.
I was a darling without even trying, kerchief and dungarees.
I say aria, scale of the day, weigh each square foot she’s kept up.
I had forgotten how to breathe, and then I learned again, all at once.
I screamed every word and waited for the stones to answer back.
The birds have all flown to Mars for water and Crisco and red.
I wanted to forget my parents’ slow dying together in Ohio.
Brod stopped her before she could fling the latte in Marcella’s face.
I drag my sheets as Earth drags her tangled mess of tides.
The kissed fingerpad touched wet with wine orbiting.
As the whorled fingerpad loves Morse, but more so. Worse.
Lufthansa lifts off under me. The set sun disinters, a fanned cinder.
We need to stop talking about it, we need to put some pants on.
“Who is it?” Irina asked at the door.
“Open up,” a voice commanded.
The Others came in the light of day and splayed Father open.
There’s anger in the sound of a V-8 engine that puts me at ease.
A Midwestern man is never without his knife. Half of us carry guns.
She takes her shirt at the waist and pulls it up slowly: her hips, belly, bra.
He got people on the conveyor belt that carried them up to heaven.
What does it take for a woman like you to decide to do something?
“Pick your switch,” says my father and I’m stepping out into the forest.
I have to say I am relieved it is over: at the end I could feel only pity.
Imagine octopus, and keep the talk going through the chew.
No salt tears,
and a continent between her ashes and Father’s.
They would find certain and awful death in Afghanistan.
She looks in the mirror above the sink, and her image makes eye contact.
I crouched just like my mother burying nail clippings to ward off curses.
The boy imagined his dead grandfather haunting the world.
Abe shot himself, first year out of high school. Assholes said he was queer.
Home, I thought. This was the new country I had been yearning for.
Stories are places to live. We live in stories. What we are is stories.
It was our flesh with its deadly sweetness that led them on.
Here is my aphorism of the day: Happy people are monogamous.
You are with outsized footnotes that have tracked across the Internet.
A clandestine participation through a soundless beauty.
We didn’t give the order to drop the bomb. But thank God somebody did.
I dream of snakes coming out of me and through the house to find her.
So sault means “jump,” as in sauter in France, but not in New France!
Tear-streaked mascara, mascara-stained cheeks: a cataract of woe.
Don’t start conversations or attract attention. Don’t be suspicious.
I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.
Her voice smelled like an orange, though I’d never peeled an orange.
For sixty or maybe seventy years this sidewalk has been lying here.
All night, rain from the distant past. I sometimes waken as a child.
The old dog of inertia gets up with a growl and shrinks out of the way.
The world beyond the windows slowly tips forward into spring.
I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.
They peer into their mirrors to see whatever is bearing down.
Before sunrise I counted nine meteors scratching the heavens.
I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.
Long and black, almost thick, the night comes to drape my shoulders.
They lived on the street, their mom a prostitute and heroin addict.
The everlasting shines through in the threshold between worlds.
I was supposed to view Beowulf as a hero. My mother told me as much.
I have already begun the life-long work of hating my father.
In all the faded retellings of that night, there’s a lot he left out.
“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”
People believe; The whole world is part of something.
Follow your dog, and you might just live to write for another day.