My father made me watch softball on ESPN 2 to help me stay alive.
If everyone’s lost on the roads, you might as well fly. Enjoy your life.
He fell to the floor and begged the gods. The gods were silent.
Heroic redemption relies on the revealing of one’s true hidden self.
Karen was, in that moment, nothing, emptiness. She was oblivion.
I recoil from the certitude that religion can give a person; it’s horrific.
Waiting for a cure, waiting for the closeout sale, the black sail.
For one hundred years I followed old people to learn what I was in for.
Even before bills and rent and adultery—you don’t sleep well.
In the morning light, I could hear Bashō hard at work.
I should never have the notebook and the pencil in the right pockets.
The appendix on political correctness explains why none of that is funny.
I had the tongue of an adder and my heart was black with rage and hate.
You are afraid pain itself might develop a way to communicate.
We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.
For sixty or maybe seventy years this sidewalk has been lying here.
In every pair, one shoe smells of exodus, the other of the body’s sweat.
The first time I met you I fought your father in the driveway.
Happiness is rare. There are no happy periods, only happy moments.
We are like a village here, separated from the rest of the world.
One door teaches to read for meaning and pleasure. Another shuts.
He was gentle and slow, like a blind man washing dishes.
Poems and stories are the whisperings of angels we cannot see.
I dream of snakes coming out of me and through the house to find her.
Their mother was the real beauty of the family, or so everyone said.
A raucous voice I raise in praiseful song, but it’s myself I praise.
I tell him: junkies are the only people worth talking to about love.