Her round, though in places pointy, head — which contained her now trembling eyelids and quivering lips — panned the room slowly. She heard a soft rustling, like a dragging blanket.Read More >
At New York’s MoMA, Henri Rousseau’s The Dream (1910) is attacked with a straight razor by a local college professor of physics, who after screaming “I am the fuck of your reality” stabs the image of a full moon in the painting’s upper right-hand corner eleven times before restraint.Read More >
I give my arms a more thorough wash in the farmhouse sink then start to burp the blue drum barrels of sauerkraut.
From the window I see the older child in the yard, slapping his hand on the flat stump of a recently cut birch.
50. In late 1992, on their first date, my parents saw The Crying Game.
51. On Wednesday, Mom quit family counseling.
52. I make my bed. I lie in it.Read More >
In the morning light, the void of thy lips
Parted as the ropes of the bee skep
All of the tours start with a visit to the center of the village, where a boxy statue of a dog sits, as if placed by accident. Invariably, a tourist will ask of its history and significance, as the statue does not bear a placard. At this point, the guide will tell a story.Read More >
Dream governments promote stilts
so I existed in a world of stilts.
I was midway through my shadowed, septic thirties. I had been hired as a generalist. What I taught was vague and interdisciplinary and unchallengeable. Whatever I said, it was bound to be correct up to a point.Read More >
Max is canceled. Oliver is canceled. Kian is canceled. Evelyn is canceled. Gideon is canceled. Rob is canceled. Bryce is canceled. Carter is canceled.Read More >
When I was 11 it was spelled with a Big I. That was how I was taught it. How autocorrect corrected it. Like god to God. It was a place to visit. A proper noun. The Internet.Read More >
Next morning, the a/c went bust. I awoke to a new way of life. Not quite flora or fauna. It was jock itch. Monkey butt. Gutter nuts.Read More >