My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.
I want to remember us this way—sun streaming through the window.
Poems and stories are the whisperings of angels we cannot see.
Why kill something so mild-mannered, entertaining, and sociable?
“Mom, don’t you think the fucking racism is worse than my profanity?”
Don’t worry. I’ve performed this procedure hundreds of times.
I wish I could tell him he’s not going to hell. It would be so freeing for him.
What a noise it must have made long ago. It’s not just me saying this.
My girlfriend, Sweet Polly Purebred, left me for George of the Jungle.
A pie can’t go to college, work hard for the grades, two jobs on the side.
The snow on the windshield a tunnel of wings my friend is driving through.
They caught those few of us left unclaimed by the one emotion, or the other.
It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration.