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Solitudeexpand_more“Happy? Nabokov died yesterday, we all move up a notch.”
Another year another almanac, a washed-out castle in the sand.
Divorced. Wife living with someone else. Pregnant with his child.
Some longings appear so frequently they must be instinct.
It’s other things than the like of you would make a person afeard.
Bodies, moths, destroyers. Fear like finding a bullet in a snowman.
We were alone in the world, and we had left dear ties behind us.
Daofu was a cluster of lights bubbling up in the belly of a darkened plain.
He thought about kissing her. Then he decided that she was just lonely.
Together we invented intimacy, both its benefits and its horrors.
I wondered if the coyotes and deer were mourning the loss of Steve.
All her sisters have gone to bed, dreaming dreams not like the wakeful.
She sips the coffee and thinks about throwing herself off the balcony.
Whitman may just mean: it is pretty cold, but there’s always colder.
I could throw one of these rocks at the moon and watch it fall.
Who cared about a whiff of male exertion and motor oil? Not Lana.
“You could come, too! No one’s forcing you to go to fucking China.”
Don’t start conversations or attract attention. Don’t be suspicious.
I never left my wife, and she never left me, but this isn’t exactly true.
This comb smells like tea gone cold, weighs less than a vein pumped full.
I want to bring the duality of us together, not spar with language.
The irreversible ink stain breaking the face of whatever we skate on.
These men don’t ask me to remove my scarf, even though it’s mid-July.
You know that sex isn’t everything. It’s time to get a move on.
All afternoon it rains on the traffic outside my window. It’s nothing new.
“I have a sneaking suspicion that we’re the same person,” she says.
After her divorce she took up with a cowboy named Wicks.
You’re safe here. A prison might be the safest place to meet a man.
What can be done to interest a younger audience in fiction?
After having been riddled with stars: I lost the light that was lost.
