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City Lifeexpand_moreWe drink to Nixon’s impeachment again, this time with the good stuff.
My mother taught me to rebel within the boundaries of acceptability.
Photo portraits, landscapes, and world scenes by Sandra Lloyd.
A clandestine participation through a soundless beauty.
Every day I was forced to return to the one place I did not want to be.
I used to be known for the humor of my music, the lightness of touch.
Ivan rolled his eyes, and looked at the sky like someone about to be martyred.
She had learned that it was easy to get Sylvi to do things.
He didn’t fall in line with our well-established porn-shop hierarchy.
John-Michael kept his mouth open until saliva had pooled behind his teeth.
I wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London.
The wild-eyed horse was more a figure of nightmare than dream.
By the end of my trip to St. Thomas, I had discovered a reason to live.
It never occurred to me that I was being sold too, standing inside my box. Basil was annoyed. All that training he’d given me going to waste on art? I’ve been selling cigarettes, I said, as if it were a credential.
The sex in these fantasies was always a product of love.
Sarah let herself be guided by her desire, inescapable and true.
Beggars know to emerge when you’ve more than enough to give.
I insist you peel me. Keep my skin when I’m gone.
Bill Evans’s quiet solo was walking out on unbelievably thin ice.
Rumi advised me to keep my spirit up in the branches of a tree.
I was a darling without even trying, kerchief and dungarees.
Maybe all of it was possible. Maybe it all could work out.
We left our lives behind us as fast as the Beemer’s zero to sixty.
No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.
I grip the handlebar and pin my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable crash.
From the roof, my husband observed daily a man and a woman having sex.
It was a Tuesday, so they made love. She thought it was a fair compromise.
I’m still in love with this filthy city, but now I know Berlin's love isn’t free.
Sue Williams tells a pitch-perfect story outloud, about devotion.
I open the gift: a small ocelot, its mouth a cave, pearl teeth waiting.
