Sometimes, it’s both fun and instructive to set for yourself ridiculous writing constraints: No semicolons, no words an tenth-grader wouldn’t know, find a story to begin with this line, &c. The same way everyone’s grandmother does the jumble or crossword (in pen) to keep her brain limber and nimble, I use Facebook’s . . . → Read More: Ten Sentences About Two Dreams
Aged eight, I discovered the dun-colored bedclothes stuck to me, my back, when, tired and wince-eyed, I woke. Sheets peeled away, in stitches
over scapulae was a moss of scabby fabric; brown pills, clots of cotton commingled with my own red cells, the result like crooked stripes of caked
mud. I’d fallen out of the . . . → Read More: Belial
You have a photograph of me that I don’t remember. You offer it up and tell me that it’s you behind the camera. I am giddy, dapper, Devil-eyed. You say it was your il a maturé birthday in a walnut-paneled room. And it doesn’t matter that neither of us is sure we’ve met before now, . . . → Read More: Phototropism
I’m able to stand on the wheelchair seat when someone calls me idiot.
My head stays on, hypnotist still, neck no longer damp pasta, as I articulate
my indignation. I never remember what I yell, only that they are terrified.
Poor souls, didn’t know there was anything within me they didn’t need to pity.
So . . . → Read More: The Palsied Boy’s Dream
I just want to be the soft flocking of yellow light in a young girl’s bed- room as she writes her diary, feeling comforted, warm, held.
And when she closes the book, ties back hair and dampens the billiard green lamp on a bedside table, I could become the stars.
Is this too much to . . . → Read More: Paige
I would no longer know your real face in a crowd. I only recognize wax paper skin, bedsores, baldness and thrush; the you that looked melted in the sun: a thalidomide. This you had spread through memory by the capillary effect, like the expanding puddle of your piss—the time you yanked the catheter and wet . . . → Read More: Ignoring Your Corpse