Stories
I’m afraid to say anything or nothing, I’m white & unalterably broken.
The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.
By the time I looked over my shoulder, the sun had already fallen.
A final toast: “to stories: the ones that made us, and the ones between us.”
The woman one row in front of me was an epic series of curves.
He’d be buried in the town he so desperately wanted to leave.
All diseases were conquered. Death was an adventure for volunteers.
I never wavered, even when it was clear he was the dangerous one.
I don’t want fiction. What I want is truth. Or someone’s version of it.
Progressive stages of revision eliminate incidence in favor of essence.
A widow is sort of a holy figure, while a divorcée is a tawdry one.
My son trims a curtain of lashes, immures them into a stray year.
“I think he does not care for art; I fancy he has not even read Pushkin.”
A gravely ill man was waiting for me in a village ten miles distant.
The almanac tells them when the moon passes into ghost weather.
He sits hiked up, naked to the waist, like a stone in the bedclothes.
The dog glares back at Roger, his eyes on fire, but he doesn’t let her go.
Human language, Winston thought, was not adequate for spiritual union.
There was no sense in brushing off or any other civilized thing.
I'll rid the world of bad things. But first, I need to get more coffee.
The peanut seller tore sheets out of paperback books to make the cones.
The distant past returned—what part of it, he could not decide.
The prisoners were ten ragged scarecrows wearing prison suits.
I shoved them one by one, easy as pie yet with care, just shy of mercy.
History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.