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.
The materials were everyday and the possibilities were open-ended.
I could not tell what visions were vanishing in the dying slave.
Like a ghost, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.
Subtract for the cigarettes, the bourbon, the sleepless nights.
They do good things for us, the bats. But we do not want them there.
His mouth hardens whenever their son’s name is mentioned.
The dead children were wheeled away, covered with white sheets.
Beyond the glib off-white palisades lies the answer to an urban dream.
Why does she do it? She knows cutting yourself is a joke. Goth, idiotic.
I hate it here, but I’ll make the best of it, because that’s what mothers do.
I was all alone in a little room, nothing but that big gun in my face.
Am I here without me just as I was before when stars spoke.
There are the short and decisive words: yes, no, now, never, love, death, poetry.
Your intelligence and charisma would serve you well in life.
We couldn’t tell which of us was a girl or a boy we gorged on dirt.
How’s everything? It’s been forever! Things with me are pretty good.
To see—and to see properly—is the writer’s central responsibility.
Truths don’t eclipse each other—they only complicate each other.
I worry that I will be kidnapped by my cab driver and driven to an ATM.
Writing is a subversive activity that exempts you from the rules.
I wanted from my father what I had never wanted or sought: his advice.
You can get anyone to sleep with you—if you want it bad enough.