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.