He doesn’t notice the cop car rolling slow-motion into the station.
This must be what it’s like to be seen by God as we inch toward the infinite.
I have given everything at the wrong time, to the wrong people.
I do not want to fall prey to the bewitchment of my mind by language.
When I dream of lovers, I rarely see faces. It’s better if we never touch.
Our bed a garden of the littlest sighs of our waking. Our room, abstract.
I know you want your mother’s dial tone like you want a KFC box.
It was the same God who told him to get the hell out of Arkansas.
I lift my wine flask, drunk with rivers and hills.
He is not a man, but an empty shell, a creature who laughs to stop the shame.
I hadn’t always liked being around my mother while she was alive.
Tobacco and dirty wool, rank alcoholic sweat. I liked him right away.
Ah, yes, Rita reminded herself: I won. Her Mistress of Mayhem award.
A Good Samaritan refused is no more good than any Bad Samaritan.
We imagined the train routes through the heart of the country.
I lost my medicine bag from back when I believed in magic.
Your image is on my credit card, you and the old red, white, and blue.
I wouldn’t sleep a second, knowing the catastrophe I’d set in motion.
I commute to war five days a week in a station wagon the color of an egg.
He was a gifted conversationalist; he could talk rain down out of clouds.
I opened my eyes and they burned; I closed them and saw my father.
Some days Barbie Chang wants to hang up her Asian boots.
Barbie Chang asks why the evil one always has black hair.
As my wife and I passed the struggling men, they stared at me.