His body so close I hear the cicada hum of his cells, and he slips away.
I’m afraid to say anything or nothing, I’m white & unalterably broken.
By the time I looked over my shoulder, the sun had already fallen.
A story about what changes and what remains the same, in just six words.
Progressive stages of revision eliminate incidence in favor of essence.
History howls for direction so I remind him how the hero was lost.
I wanted to ride this day down into night, to smooth the unreadable page.
The presents you receive will not have been chosen with such care.
Life, then, was song and purple font, imagining in words a future.
We caress the rough. Sensuous, delectable, and yet sorrowful.
I want to focus on bears. On knowing them, and on what they need.
Man is always beginning everything anew, even in his own life.
The survival of our world depends upon the cultivation of better language.
Advance planning was never Hank’s strong suit, he had to leave her.
Fiction, no matter how short or long, is the art form of human yearning.
How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.
My bike, my skinny body, my pent breath was thrown to the grass.
I was writing copy for cheapo furniture for a crummy ad agency.
To articulate sweet sounds together is to work harder than all these.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
I want to say hold these harp strings steady atop the tallest summit.
I sit next to a man I never loved but let kiss me wetly for two months.
He said he had come back to the prison because it was home.
They taught us do not touch it, but who can keep from touching it?
…when you walk to the edge of the Mekong and make a wish…
Art touches the soul and moves life in ways that commerce cannot. E. L. Doctorow noted that writers seem to get business ideas almost right.
You walk and the world bends toward you like leaves waiting for rain.
We’ve seen the news. We know the story. How even our bodies hurt us.