I lay next to you. No: not next to, entangled with. No: not entangled, braided. No: there are no prepositions that fit our configuration. We lay swaddled in the soft cotton of bedsheets; our arms and legs akimbo, your thinner limbs weaving in and through the acute angles of my bent elbows and knees. In . . . → Read More: We Suck the Moon
Simplify, simplify. If I hadn’t already mulched my dog-eared, trade-paper copy of Walden/Civil Disobedience, I could have extended that quotation profoundly, instead of merely adumbrating the idea. Simplify.
By November of 2000, I had a mattress. Stained and remaindered from a two decade-old futon, it laid without linens on the unfinished wood floor, piebald with . . . → Read More: Failing the Litmus Test for Apathy
Waist-deep in the broth of the Atlantic, I take a wave made of fists to the chest. Stumbling in the cockstrut way of feet on shells, I remember that eighty percent of our globe is salt water just like the eighty percent of our bodies—all saline too. Knocked to my shins by the juggernaut tide, . . . → Read More: Saline
I see a woman with double chins, both overgrown with a downy blonde pelt, as I drive south on state route 90. Darker hairs, spangled through the goatee, are stiff and perpendicular to her face. She coughs, belches—something— some full-body spasm sends pink debris spraying. It becomes flocking for the glass and dusty vinyl dash. . . . → Read More: Fat Woman in an ’89 Camry
I She wears her hair in pigtails every day, even though it’s uncomfortable, even though she hates it. When he sneaks up from behind and tugs twice on the left one, it translates roughly to “I love you” in a secret language spoken soundlessly by embarrassed failing fathers everywhere.
II She plays the piano for . . . → Read More: Beauty
I am in coda, running down the clock during an interval of delay. Enduring the seeming ceaselessness, the persistence of life. Between now and then: three doses a day, they tell me, at regular intervals and with water. Then I wait.
Meat goes and goes until it won’t. The body decomposes from the inside out—did . . . → Read More: Prescription
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