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.
Better to rewrite Baudelaire: The body only exists in the dark.
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.
Now we have the shells, the casings, emptied and scattered, strewn
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.
I’ve never cared for the National Anthem. It’s not a good song.
It’s so easy these days to receive what you thought you needed.
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.
I never knew that the song of the first summer cicadas could ease my hips
He said he had come back to the prison because it was home.