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No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.

He twisted like a weasel in the sack, lashing backward with his fist.

Buster’s reasons for looking after Marco weren’t entirely altruistic.

Trump reminded me of the guys I grew up with on Long Island.

They all pivoted to face us, tan mannequins on a conveyor belt.

Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.

A homecoming, she says, as if you hadn’t been back in decades.

A simple line of raging wet nearby, how as a kid I pictured the Nile.

Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.

Even this says nothing of your desire—to be put to use.

My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.

It has come to this—my daughter is now assaulting other children.

An idea surfacing—a crack of orange teeth. As if a ceiling disappears.

We put effort into making things that No Man would ever think of creating.

I tried to cheer my brother up by reminding him all clowns die too.

I’m in a fight for my career and the SOB won’t be there for me.

“You’re great with people. Ever since you got over the drooling problem.”

I drank every night until late and drew earth-shaking conclusions.

Cerberuses ran in packs, terrorizing drunks who fell in the snow.

At the copier, her back to him, running off copies, was Penny Ayler.

What I really meant to say is that I am tired. Beauty can demand so much.

The man lifted his shirt just enough to show the handle of a pistol.

Everything about us, for better or worse, we make ourselves.

Once, when young and proud, I tried to grasp the enormity of the past.

He’s not the skinny hippie all the paintings make Him out to be.

I once watched a man wax a hallway with an overweight rotary brush.

The man said in a hard voice, “I wanna fuck you, little Indian girl.”

Get all of it. Set up the shots. Get beautiful stuff and get the ugliness.

We’re fat! So what? They hadn’t yet tired of this chant, the play’s refrain.