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Tweet Sunrise The attic’s effluvium is a complex mélange: one-third salt, one-third mold, one-third urine. Hot spruce. The medley is equally identifiable on the palate; I can taste it, I never seem to adjust. All July and August, every breath is like gargling with swampwater, each a heavy, slow-simmered nauseous experience. The . . . → Read More: Pink Turtleneck About Which No One Asks Any Questions Tweet In early summer ’07, my closest friends left town without saying goodbye. There’s a story behind this, the lack of parting salutations, but I didn’t hear it for two years. The short version: one of these friends, the wife in a married pair, told her husband and, apparently, everyone else she knew that I’d been . . . → Read More: Reveal the Best of Me Tweet This is not a story about genicons or masturbation. Spring of ’ninety-three, I was twelve years old and my vernal girlfriend was either my last imaginary friend or the first fictional character I ever penned. Well into adulthood, I remain unsure which title is more suitable. Earlier today, explaining how an extinguished but previously long-extant . . . → Read More: I Just Made Her Up to Hurt Myself 
Tweet This afternoon, I ambled on an errand about a local retail plaza and, to my astonishment, I discovered there the most ideal sneakers I’d ever seen. Suede and several different shades of grey,[1]their white toe, slate laces and a black faux-snakeskin design on both port and starboard sides made them a glorious, textural monochrome rainbow. . . . → Read More: An Entirely Different Cuban Missile Crisis Tweet 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 Tweet 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 Tweet Because we both have held ourselves together with fishnet as clothing; because we both have lost the ability to cry for real life the way we cry for films; because we both have dreamt that our teeth are falling out— moldering, crumbling, leaving moonscape craters and the negative space in smooth, hollow sockets; I allow . . . → Read More: Triage |
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