If others call you a maniac or a fool, just let them wag their tongues.
It’s so delicate, the light. And there’s so little of it. The dark is huge.
You will be a broke blues man with only some story of how you were.
I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.
He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.
The allure of Mardi Gras is to feel this way: unseen and unseeable.
My bike, my skinny body, my pent breath was thrown to the grass.
However hard you try to make amends, they will still condemn you.
I’m mourning in the armpits of a lover we once called a family friend.
We’ve seen the news. We know the story. How even our bodies hurt us.
I was thinking sex, she was thinking sex, but neither of us made a move.
For one hundred years I followed old people to learn what I was in for.
In the morning light, I could hear Bashō hard at work.
We have harvested nothing more than the stench of middle age.
do you asks pretty sue know what I love what pretty please tell us
I only feel that here, only here, in this one place, a small rise.
Suddenly, all of the past seemed now like the same endless race.
He doesn’t notice the cop car rolling slow-motion into the station.
Keely finally stops crying when they step outside. The shock of cold.
I lost my medicine bag from back when I believed in magic.
How’s everything? It’s been forever! Things with me are pretty good.
Writing is a subversive activity that exempts you from the rules.
A collection from San Franciscan photographers Eszter and David.
The old dog of inertia gets up with a growl and shrinks out of the way.
Vultures liked to perch on the austere ledge outside my window.
He phones from across the country after lying in the grass with another.
A queen bobcat lives in the hollow base of a dead cypress.
I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.
Byron’s mother read things to him: Language is fun. Play. Let’s play.
No one tells you what it sounds like out in the streets when bullets clang.