The dead cowards my parents on a tear through the goddamn fields.
I don’t want fiction. What I want is truth. Or someone’s version of it.
A widow is sort of a holy figure, while a divorcée is a tawdry one.
The horse had been beaten and flies crawled on the beat marks.
The almanac tells them when the moon passes into ghost weather.
Human language, Winston thought, was not adequate for spiritual union.
I was enraged at being alone on the outside of all that love and lust.
I used bravado to protect myself when we lived in poverty.
We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
The preacher looked me in the eye. He laid his hand on my chest.
You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.
My grandfather committed my grandmother to a mental asylum.
Frank kept his face blank as he read the orders: Report to Berlin.
Neither blood nor belonging accounted for my presence in Ghana.
Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.
We caress the rough. Sensuous, delectable, and yet sorrowful.
The hawk moves out of the way to let a little hot package of breath rise up.
I thought my body was mine until it became a map anyone could use.
Felicia knew why he was there. He was waiting. Waiting for her.
In Florence I gained a sense of how I might want to spend my life.
I can see on him how things are changing for and against us.
It was true. We would probably never visit that place again.
Some inner voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided.
I grabbed him by the face and told him life only comes to a person once.
The allure of Mardi Gras is to feel this way: unseen and unseeable.
We never really had what might be considered a normal conversation.
A father peeled the night / from another midnight & begged / me to lie
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
In a way she enjoyed the slow, sad feeling of letting it go.
I have, in the long solitude of my body, asked for something else.